AND  CUPID 


EMANN 


MARTHA   AND    CUPID 


OE  CALlf .  LIBRABY,  ttfe  1HGEL#S 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

MARTHA     BY-THE-DAY 

A  big,  kindly  Irish  charwoman  takes 
under  her  wing  a  well-born  girl  whom  she 
finds  alone  and  helpless  in  New  York. 

1 4th  printing.     $1.00  net 


MAKING    OVER    MARTHA 

This  story  follows  "Martha"  and  her 
family  to  the  country,  where  she  again 
finds  a  love  affair  on  her  hands. 

6th  printing.      $1.20  net 

"  The  cheeriest,  happiest  books'" 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


MARTHA  AND  CUPID 


By 
JULIE    M.    LIPPMANN 

Author  of  "Martha  By-the-Day  "  and  "Making  Over  Martha" 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Published  October,  1914 


THE  QUINN  «  BOOEN  CO.  PRESS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      "By  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  .... 

II.      THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  .... 

III.  HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  .... 

IV.  THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  .... 
V.      THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  .... 

VI.     THE  SILVER  BRIDE 


21,31183 


MARTHA   AND    CUPID 


MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

CHAPTER  I 
"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  " 

A>  Sam  Slawson  turned  the  corner  of  the 
Avenue  he  saw,  some  yards  ahead  of  him, 
what  caused  a  scowl  as  grim  as  that  on  a  tragic 
mask  to  overcast  his  otherwise  prepossessing 
features. 

And  yet  there  was  nothing  baleful  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  man  on  whom  Sam's  eyes  were  fixed. 
On  the  contrary,  his  erect  figure  was  particularly 
well  set-up,  trigly  dressed.  His  gait  had  a  stylish 
swing,  his  hat  a  knowing  tilt.  Every  line  of  him 
indicated  positive  characteristics — determination, 
direction,  alertness — attributes  all,  that  supposedly 
make  for  success. 

Sam  Slawson,  physically  a  young  giant,  vaguely 
realized  he  stood  dwarfed  in  effect  beside  Peter 
Gilroy  when  they  were  together,  for  though  Peter 
actually  measured  less  than  Sam  by  several  inches, 
his  head  was  held  higher,  his  shoulders  squarer, 

3 


4  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

he  had  an  air  of  self-assurance  that  seemed  to 
add  more  than  a  cubit  to  his  height. 

"  He's  going  to  see  Martha,"  Sam  meditated, 
slackening  hrs  pace.  "Of  course  he's  going  to 
see  Martha.  And  he's  got  in  ahead  of  me,  as 
usual." 

He  was  so  sure  Peter  was  going  to  see  Martha 
that  there  was  really  no  necessity  of  hanging  back 
to  prove  it,  yet  Sam  stood  still  and  waited — 
waited  for  Gilroy  to  turn  in  at  the  area  entrance 
of  the  house  where  Martha  Carrol,  parlor-maid, 
was  "  living  out." 

Gilroy  turned  in,  descended  the  few  steps  that 
led  from  the  street-level  down  to  the  basement 
courtyard  and  rang  the  basement  bell. 

Sam  heard  the  bell.  A  moment  later  he  heard 
the  iron  grated  gate  click  open,  then  swing  to 
again  with  a  sharp,  metallic  clang.  He  sighed. 
He  could  picture  to  himself  the  sort  of  thing  tak- 
ing place  inside  the  grated  gate. 

Probably  Delia  the  "  flip "  kitchen-maid  was 
ushering  Gilroy  hospitably  into  the  servants'  sit- 
ting-room, his  air  of  having  come  a-courting 
arousing  in  her  quick,  vicarious  sensations  of  ex- 
citement and  coquetry. 

"  Ho,  Mr.  Gilroy,  you  here  again!  " 

"  Shoor!    Any  objection?  " 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  5 

"  Aintchu  awful!  I  s'pose  you  come  to  see 
Ma — ,"  a  pause,  an  effort  to  look  arch,  and 
then— "ri«/" 

"  That's  right.  I've  come  to  see  Ma — ria. 
Keep  on  the  right  side  of  the  cook  and  you'll 
have  luck — is  my  maxim." 

"  I  think  you're  purfkkly  tumble." 

"  Now,  you  know  you  don't  really  think  any 
such  thing.  You  know  you  think  I'm  perfectly  all 
ri-ight." 

His  provocative,  masculine  confidence  played 
on  her  easy  emotions. 

"  What  d'you  care  if  I  do?  Nobody  cares  any- 
thing about  me.  I'm  no  account  in  this  house. 
A  body  needs  to've  lived  out  in  the  fam'ly  ever 
since  she  was  twelve,  an'  her  mother  before  her, 
to  have  any  show  here.  I  bet  I  wouldn't  be 
raised  from  kitchen-maid  to  parlor,  with  two 
days  out  a  week,  an'  all  my  evenin's  free,  an' 
big  wages  besides,  for  all  I  could  do.  Ho! 
Nobody'd  be  treated  like  that  in  this  house 
'xceptin'  Martha." 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  and  be  jealous,  kid.  The 
green-eyed  monster  and  pretty  girls  like  you  don't 
gee,  see?  Come,  cheer  up!  Here's  a  quarter  to 
buy  you  a  ribbon  to  put  in  your  bonny  brown  hair, 
like  the  song  says.  By  the  way — skip  now  and 


6  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

tell  Martha  I'm  here,  will  you?    That's  a  good 

girl!" 

"Whatchu  do  if  I  told  you  she's  a-went  to 
her  mother's." 

"  But  she  ain't.    Tell  her  I'm  here." 

At  the  mandatory  note  suddenly  audible  in  Gil- 
roy's  voice,  Delia  quit  her  ineffectual  venture  at 
flirtation,  despairing  (for  the  time  being)  of  cut- 
ting Martha  out,  and  dismally  did  as  she  was 
bidden. 

Sam  had  been  present  more  than  once  when 
scenes  like  this  had  been  enacted.  He  could 
imagine  it  in  all  sorts  of  variations,  to  his  own 
self-torture.  Delia  never  tried  to  "  carry  on  " 
with  him.  Delia  thought  he  was  "  a  chump." 
He  had  overheard  her  say  so  to  Maria,  the  cook. 
Undoubtedly  she  had  also  mentioned  it  to  Martha. 
He  forgot  where  he  was,  and  stood  staring 
blankly  at  the  massive  fagade  of  the  Granville's 
house  where  Martha  lived,  until  a  strolling  police- 
man rapped  him  smartly  on  the  shoulder,  advising 
him  to  pass  on. 

"  No  loitering  'round  here,  young  feller.  Get  a 
move  on !  " 

Being  so  sweetly  urged,  Sam  got  the  desired 
move  on  which,  in  due  time,  brought  him  back 
to  his  own  door,  to  spend  an  evening  of  mild 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  7 

martyrdom  with  "  Ma,"  his  only  surviving  parent 
whom  he  had  housed  and  supported  since  he  was 
fourteen,  the  other  eight  Slawson  brothers  and 
sisters,  married  or  single,  having  other  plans — 
plans  with  which  Ma's  presence  did  not  coincide. 

As  it  happened,  the  "  flip  "  Delia  had  actually 
summoned  Martha  at  Gilroy's  command  and 
Martha,  tall,  straight,  handsome,  her  splendid 
young  figure  showing  to  advantage  in  her  uni- 
form of  black,  tight-fitting  frock,  set  off  by  crisp 
white  apron,  collar,  cuffs,  and  cap,  had,  in  due 
time,  come  down. 

"  Did  you  get  my  letter? "  Gilroy  inquired 
abruptly. 

Martha  seemed  to  cogitate.  "  Now,  lemme 
see,"  she  weighed  it,  "did  I,  or  didn't  I?  It's 
very  confusin',  havin'  the  large  correspondence  I 
got.  I  sometimes  think  I'll  have  to  get  a  seeker- 
terry  like  Mrs.  Granville." 

"  O,  I  say,  Martha,  quit  your  fooling.  I'm  in 
earnest.  Did  you  get  it?" 

"  You  mean,  the  letter  tellin'  about " 

"  Uh-huh !  The  chance  Tim  Murphy  gimme. 
I  tell  you  it's  great,  Martha  !  Great !  I'm  gettin' 
in  on  the  ground  floor,  an'  that  means  I'll  hit 
it  rich  some  day!  By  jiminy,  girl,  I'll  be  able  to 
put  velvet  under  your  feet!  " 


8  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  Cotton-back,  or  silk?  "  inquired  Martha. 

Peter  gave  a  petulant  ejaculation. 

"  'Cause  if  it's  cotton-back,  '  thank  you,  thank 
you,  sir,'  she  sayed,  '  your  kindness  I  nev-er  shall 
for-get,'  but  I  don't  like  the  feel  of  it,  an'  what'd 
be  the  use  under  my  feet  anyhow?" 

"  You're  a — divil,  Martha !  "  observed  Gilroy. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that !  When 
quality  meets,  compliments  fly.  An'  talkin'  about 
compliments — what's  a  jew-no?  I  s'pose  the 
woods  is  full  of  'em,  but  I  never  happened  to  run 
acrost  one.  Somethin'  in  the  sheeny-line,  eh?  " 

"  Who's  been  callin'  you  a  Juno?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  no  one  has." 

"  But  it's  so,  all  the  samee." 

"  Well,  I  won't  deceive  you.  Last  Tuesday  I 
was  '  on  the  door ' — it  bein'  Slater's  afternoon 
off,  an'  a  certain  party  who  shall  be  nameless 
said  to  Mrs.  Granville — referrin'  to  your  humble 
servant,  as  the  sayin'  is,  which  I  ain't — '  You  don't 
mean  to  say  that  is  Martha — in  the  hall?  I 
wouldn't  have  known  her.  Why,  she's  a  perfect 
jew-no.  She  wears  her  cap  like  a  tarara.' ' 

"Curse  him!" 

"  Not  by  no  means.  Far  from  it.  He'd  used 
to  know  me  by  sight  years  ago  when  he  was 
callin'  at  Mrs.  Underwood's,  before  Miss  Frances 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  9 

was  married.  I  always  liked'm,  if  he  did  think 
I  was  a  clumsy  lump  in  them  days.  An'  I  like 
him  now  just  as  good.  I  know  what  a  tarara  is, 
Mrs.  Granville  wearin'  one  to  protect  her  from 
cold-in-the-head  opera  nights.  But  jew-no  gets 
me!" 

"  I  bet  I  know  who  the  '  party '  is.  Captain 
Stafford.  An'  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Martha,  that 
gen'lman  better  look  out  for  himself.  Mr.  Gran- 
ville'll  catch  on  to  it  some  fine  day  that  the 
captain's  flutterin'  'round  the  flame  again,  an'  he 
won't  like  it  for  a  cent.  I  know  Mr.  Granville.  I 
ain't  been  his  handy-man  for  nothin'.  No  matter 
if  he  did  come  out  ahead,  he  knows  it  was  nip  an' 
tuck  at  one  time  between  him  and  Captain  Staf- 
ford for  the  lady,  an'  no  man  likes  his  rival 
hangin'  around  like  I  hear  this  one  is  startin'  in 
to  do." 

"Goodness,  gracious  me!  'Oh,  grandmother, 
what  great  ears  you  got! '  said  little  Red  Ridin' 
Hood!  "  Martha  observed  blandly.  "Your  ears 
hear  more  things  than  ever's  been  said,  don't 
they?" 

"  They  heard  the  Captain  ringin'  the  front- 
door bell  as  I  come  in,  all  right,"  responded 
Gilroy,  disregarding  her  irony.  "  He's  upstairs 
this  minute,  in  the  drawin'-room,  an'  you  know  it. 


io  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

But  that  ain't  my  funer'l.  What  I  say  is,  tl 
madam's  company  ain't  no  business  passing  pe 
sonal  remarks  on  you.  It  ain't  good  for  a  girl- 
flatterin'  her  like  that." 

Martha  shrugged.  "  What  harm  is  it,  I  shou 
like  to  know?  Pity  if  somebody's  compai 
wouldn't  flatter  me.  My  own  don't." 

"  What  with  the  way  the  madam  spoils  yo 
Martha,  and  the  things  her  company  says,  yo 
head'll  be  turned." 

"  Well,  s'posin'  it  is.  The  more  ways  I  c; 
look,  the  better  I  am  off.  If  I  don't  like  to  s 
how  I  got  left  in  one  direction,  I  can  watch  o 
for  what's  comin'  to  me  in  another.  But  I  g 
somethin'  to  keep  my  mind  off  the  present,  an 
how." 

"  Do  you  want  to  keep  your  mind  off  the  pn 
ent,  Martha?"  Peter  put  the  question  to  h 
with  as  much  sentimental  emphasis  as  he  dan 
employ. 

"  Me?    Why  should  I?    It  might  be  worse.' 

Gilroy  brought  his  open  hand  down  upon  1: 
knee  with  an  impatient  slap.  "  You're  the  dicke 
and  all  for  keepin'  a  feller  guessin',"  he  sai 
"  Here  I  been  keepin'  company  with  you  no^ 
for — lemme  see,  how  long  is  it?  Two  years, 
bet.  I  been  keepin'  company  with  you  now  f< 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  n 

two  years  steady,  an'  I'll  be  blamed  if  I  know  this 
minute  if  you're  really  goin'  to  have  me  or  not." 

"  I  ain't  like  to  say  what  I'll  have  before  I  get 
the  refusal  of  it,"  said  Martha. 

"  O,  come  now !  That's  too  thin !  You  can't 
shassay  out  of  it  like  that.  You  know  I'm  dead 
gone  on  you,  Martha.  I've  tried  a  hundred  times, 
if  I've  tried  once,  to  get  right  down  to  tin  tacks 
an'  ask  you  to  marry  me,  but " 

"Hark!  That  the  airy-bell?  Now,  who's 
comin',  I  wonder? " 

Gilroy  choked  back  his  exasperation  with  diffi- 
culty. He  craned  forward  to  look  through  the 
grated  window  into  the  courtyard,  dusky  now 
with  early,  evening  shadows. 

"  Maria's  brother,  't  appears  like,"  he  ven- 
tured. 

"  O,"  said  Martha. 

'  You  lookin'  for  anybody?  "  Peter  caught  at 
the  faint  drop  in  her  voice  with  instant  suspicion. 

u  Nobody  special.  Sam  Slawson  said  he  might 
be  along,  but  I  ain't  lookin'  for  him.  If  a  girl'd 
be  lookin'  for  all  the  men  says  they  want  to 
come  see  her,  she'd  be  cross-eyed  in  no  time, 
peerin'  out  into'  nothin'  at  all,  both  ways  for 
Sunday,  watchin'  their  backs  vanishin'  in  the 
distance." 


12  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  know,"  Gilroy  let  out 
with  a  cutting  laugh.  "  Maybe  you  might  have 
seen  Sam  Slawson's  back  vanishing  in  the  dis- 
tance along  around  the  time  I  come  in.  He  was 
right  behind  me.  I  saw  him  out  of  the  tail  of 
my  eye,  but  I  didn't  let  on.  I  guess  he  thought 
better  of  it  and  didn't  want  to  push  himself. 
Likely  he's  waiting  patiently  about  outside.  Want 
me  to  go  see?  Maybe  I  could  in-dooce  him  to 
come  in." 

"  My  name's  Martha — not  Mary,"  remarked 
Miss  Carrol. 

Peter  looked  up  inquiringly.  "  Well,  what's 
that  got  to  do ?" 

"  Only,  I  don't  happen  to  be  the  party  that's 
noted  for  her  crush  on  lambs.  I  don't  like'm 
waitin'  patiently  about,  blockin'  up  the  gangway. 
If  Sam  Slawson,  or  any  other  fella,  wants  to 
come  to  see  me,  he  can.  But  if  he's  the  kind 
you  got  to  in-dooce,  why, — he  can  go  to  it,  for  all 
/  care." 

Gilroy  laughed.  He  could  appreciate  what 
he  called  "  Martha's  tongue,"  when  it  was  not 
engaged  in  sword-practice  against  himself. 

"  O,  Sam's  all  right,"  he  observed  with  an 
air  of  easy  patronage.  "  The  trouble  with  Sam 
is,  he's  too  good-natured.  He's  the  kind  that 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  13 

lets  folks  get  the  best  of  him.  He  won't  buck 
up  and  show  a  fist.  Nowadays,  if  a  man  wants 
to  rise  in  the  world,  he's  got  to  hit  out,  good 
and  lively,  at  anything  that  stands  in  his  way. 
And  when  he's  once  got  it  thrown  down  he  must 
use  it  to  climb  up  on.  That  mayn't  sound  like 
sweet  singin',  but  it's  the  right  tune  all  the  samee, 
and  don't  you  forget  it." 

Martha  seemed  to  meditate.  "  I  suppose  Sam 
is  a  kind  of  a  chump,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 
"  I  never  thought  of  it  till  Delia  said  so,  the 
other  day,  but  ever  since  my  attention  was  drew  to 
it,  I  can  see  he  is  a  kind  of  a  chump." 

"  He's  his  own  worst  enemy,"  Peter  confided 
cheerfully.  "  Now,  there  was  that  time  Tim 
Murphy  gave  him  the  chance  to  make  an  honest 
penny,  on  the  strict  Q.  T.  First-off  Sam  was  all 
for  it,  but  then  he  had  to  go  snoopin'  in  where 
he  had  no  business,  askin'  questions,  an'  tellin' 
Murphy  if  the  thing  wasn't  open  an'  aboveboard, 
on  the  square,  he  wouldn't  stand  for  it.  That 
sort  of  talk  gets  a  man  like  Murphy  nervous. 
First  thing  Sam  knew,  Murphy  turned  him  down. 
Sam  might  have  had  lots  of  good  things  comin' 
his  way,  like  I've  got,  if  he'd  stood  in  right  with 
Murphy.  Now  Murphy  wouldn't  let  him  train 
with  the  rest  of  we  boys  in  the  ward,  not  if  Sam 


14  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

crawled  to  beg  him  on  his  knees.  That's  the 
kind  of  a  hairpin  Murphy  is.  If  he's  down  on  a 
feller,  he's  down." 

"  That's  the  kind  of  thing  I  like  in  a  man," 
said  Martha.  "  I  mean,  holdin'  out,  no  matter 
what,  when  oncet  he's  made  his  mind  up.  You 
let  me  know  if  Sam  crawls  back  to  Murphy, 
will  you?  " 

Peter  crossed  his  legs  with  great  complacency. 
'  To  give  the  devil  his  due,  Sam  ain't  crawled 
yet.  If  he'd  wanted  to,  he'd  'a'  done  it  before 
this.  That's  just  what  I  mean  about  Sam.  He's 
the  sort  of  blind,  pig-headed  honest  that  can't  look 
out  for  their  own  interests.  There's  no  doin'  with 
him  at  all.  You  can't  make  him  see  things 
any  way  but  the  way  he  sees  it.  Down  to 
the  office  the  other  day  I  heard  Mr.  Granville 
tell  him  to  his  face,  he'd  never  get  on  in  this 
world." 

'  You  don't  say  so !  "  ejaculated  Martha. 

;<  Those  were  his  very  words — an'  Mr.  Gran- 
ville's  a  keen  one,  he  is.  He'll  be  judge  soon,  an' 
don't  you  forget  it.  Those  were  his  very  words 
— '  You'll  never  get  on  in  this  world,  Sam,' 
saysee." 

"Now  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  Ain't  it 
too  bad!  Mr.  Granville  bein'  the  keen  1'yer  he 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  15 

is,  o'  course  what  he  says  goes.  There's  no 
gettin'  away  from  it.  I  should  think  Sam's  heart 
would  be  broke.  What  didee  say?  " 

"  Nothing.    Just  looked." 

"  P'raps  Sam  thinks  the  kind  o'  folks  that  don't 
get  on  in  this  world  stand  a  good  chance  of 
goin'  up  head  in  the  next." 

Gilroy  laughed.  "  To  think  that  wouldn't 
help  me  much.  It's  what  I'd  call  cussed  cold 
comfort.  The  kind  gives  you  a  regular  north- 
pole,  arctic  chill.  If  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  hand 
it  out  to  Sam.  He  might  take  it  you  was  string- 
ing him,  and  that  would  hurt  his  feelings,  for — I'll 
give  you  the  straight  tip,  Sam's  awful  fond  of 
you,  Martha !  " 

"No!" 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  ain't  on  to  it?  "  queried 
Peter.  "  Why,  I'll  go  further,  and  tell  you  this: 
I  bet  he  would  of  told  you  so  long  ago  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  two  what-you-might-call  ob- 
stacles." 

"  Two?  "  repeated  Martha. 

Peter  nodded,  checking  them  off  impressively 
on  the  palm  of  his  left  hand  with  the  stubby  fore- 
finger of  his  right. 

"  His  mother  and— I !  " 

"Well,  now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  " 


16  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Gilroy  shook  a  rueful  head.  "  He  sure  is 
handicapped,  Sam  is." 

11 1  should  —  think  —  as  much !  "  Martha 
brought  out  with  slow  distinctness. 

"  Not  many  fellers  would  have  the  spunk  to 
come  around  at  all,  if  they  were  up  against  it, 
like  he  is,"  Gilroy  continued.  "  You  mustn't 
blame  Sam,  Martha." 

"  I'm  not  blamin'  'm,"  said  Martha. 

As  Peter  walked  down  the  street  somewhat 
later,  his  self-complacent  whistle  could  be  heard 
clearly  for  blocks  through  the  silence  of  the  night. 
He  felt  pleased  with  himself,  thoroughly  satisfied. 
His  generosity  toward  Sam  had  made  him,  if 
possible,  even  more  "  solid  "  with  Martha.  Gil- 
roy liked  to  feel  the  warm  inner  glow  that  ac- 
companies an  act  of  virtue.  He  did  not  reflect 
that  he  had,  gradually,  ceased  to  respond,  with 
an  outer  suffusion,  to  acts  of  an  opposite  nature. 
He  thought  very  well  of  himself,  and  he  felt 
others  thought  well  of  him,  so  he  was  "  in  all 
right "  all  around.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his 
mind  that  he  was  going  to  succeed.  Why 
shouldn't  he  succeed?  He  whistled  continuously 
from  Martha's  door  to  his  own. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  course  of  her  climb  up- 
stairs to  her  own  room,  Martha  paused  at  Mrs. 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  17 

Granville's  boudoir,  the  door  of  which  stood 
ajar.  She  did  not  knock  for  admittance,  but  a 
voice  from  within  answered  as  promptly  as  if 
she  had. 

"  Is  that  you,  Martha?  " 

"  Yes'm." 

"Come  in!" 

Softly  Martha  tiptoed  into  the  fragrant, 
dimly-lit  chamber,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
chiming  clock  that  uttered  eleven  long  notes  in 
melody.  It  was  a  wonder-place  of  rare  and  beau- 
tiful objects,  but  Martha  saw  one  only  and  made 
straight  for  it. 

Young  Mrs.Granville  (always  "Miss  Frances" 
to  Martha's  heart)  smiled  the  girl  a  welcome 
from  where  she  had  thrown  herself  upon  a  cush- 
ioned couch  in  the  shadow. 

'  You  haven't  been  waiting  up  for  me  again, 
Martha?" 

"  No'm.  Peter  Gilroy  was  downstairs.  The 
way  that  fella  sticks  you'd  think  his  mother'd  been 
a  porous  plaster."  For  once  "  Miss  Frances  " 
did  not  laugh  at  Martha's  foolery. 

"  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  sit  up  for  me,"  she 
said,  following  her  own  thought.  "  Hortense  is 
there,  of  course,  and  it  is  her  place — but " 

"  Certaintly,"  said  Martha.    "  Hortense  is  your 


i8  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

maid.  I  ain't  interferin'  with  her  dooties,  much 
less  her  privilidges.  But  I  been  used  to  stoppin' 
on  my  way  to  bed  to  see  you're  all  right,  Miss 
Frances — I  should  say,  Mrs.  Granville.  I  been 
used  to  it  for  years — ever  since  the  both  of  us 
was  hardly  more  than  childern  in  your  mother's 
house.  God  bless  her!  I  couldn't  break  myself 
off  of  a  habit  like  that.  Seems  to  me  I  can  hear 
her  voice  now.  '  I  wisht  you'd  see  if  Miss 
Frances  is  all  right  before  you  go  to  bed,  Martha.' 
D'you  think  I  could  lay  my  head  on  the  pilla,  an' 
sleep  sound  while  the  same  roof  covers  us,  if  I 
hadn't  done  it?  No,  ma'am!  I  should  say 
madam." 

"  I  think  I'd  like  to  feel  your  hands  on  my 
head,  Martha." 

"Yes'm!" 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  as  Martha  patiently 
stroked  and  stroked,  two  tears  slipped  from  under 
"  the  madam's  "  closed  lids  and  hung  upon  her 
cheeks,  until  she  raised  a  surreptitious  hand  and 
brushed  them  impatiently  away.  Martha  saw, 
but  made  no  comment.  She  did  not  need  the  evi- 
dence of  tears  to  tell  her  when  Miss  Frances  was 
troubled. 

"  I  wonder  why  I  like  your  touch  on  my  head 
better  than  Hortense's,"  mused  Mrs.  Granville, 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  19 

speaking  because,  with  this  great  friendly  presence 
beside  her,  she  was  afraid  of  a  silence  that  would 
threaten  her  self-control  and  lead  her  on  to  "  say 
things."  "  Hortense's  fingers  are  as  light  as 
feathers,  and  yours " 

"  Mine  comes  down  like  a  thousand  o'  brick. 
I  know  it.  Your  brother  Arthur  told  me  once 
when  I  was  cleanin'  his  room  an'  broke  one  of 
his  bricky-braws  on'm — '  You  got  a  hand  like  the 
hand  o'  fate,  Martha,'  an'  I  know  it.  I  remem- 
ber when  first  I  come  to  live  at  your  mother's,  your 
brother  Arthur  he  was  hantin'  the  kitchen  one 
day,  'count  o'  smellin'  fresh  chocolate-cake,  an' 
he  see  me.  '  Ho !  '  saysee,  pointin'  his  finger — 
*  What's  that?'  'The  new  kitchen-maid,  Mr. 
Arthur,'  says  Joanna,  which  she  was  cook  at  the 
time.  *  This  is  Martha  Carrol,  Hannah's  girl 
that  was  your  mother's  cook,  an'  got  married 
from  this  house.  She's  kitchen-maid  now.' 
'Maid!'  says  Mr.  Arthur.  'That  ain't  no 
maid — that's  an  elephant !  '  An'  true  for  him 
I  was  a  big,  bunglin'  lump  of  a  thing  an'  am 
yet." 

Mrs.  Granville  shook  her  head. 

"Naughty  boy!  If  my  dear  mother  had 
known—  What  I  was  thinking  is  this,  I  wouldn't 
for  worlds  have  you  meddle  with  my  hair,  but 


20  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

when  I'm  a  little  tired— like  this— I  want  you— 
not  Hortense." 

Martha  pondered  the  puzzle  for  a  space. 

"  'Taint  Hortense's  fault,"  she  brought  out  at 
last.  "  I  guess  it's  just  that  even  a  French  lady's- 
maid,  smart  as  they  are,  ain't  learned  the  trick 
o'  untanglin'  the  little  snarls  that  sometimes  gets 
way  back  into  your  head,  back  o'  the  roots  o'  the 
hair.  The  only  thing  that'll  smooth  them  out 
is — somebody  that  loves  you." 

Mrs.  Granville  laid  her  hand  for  a  second  on 
Martha's  hand. 

"  You  sometimes  say  such  true  things,  Martha. 
I  wonder  where  you  learned  them." 

"  Prob'ly  from  your  mother.  She  took  a  lot 
o'  pains  with  me.  I  never  see  any  one  so  pationate 
as  her.  An'  me  such  a  dunce  I  never  could  learn 
from  books.  Mr.  Arthur  used  to  say  I  certaintly 
did  have  the  gift  o'  the  gab,  or  words  to  that 
effect,  an'  I  will  say  for'm  that  if  the  Lord  saw 
fit  to  cut  down  on  my  share  o'  worldty  goods  an* 
suchlike,  he  didn't  stint  me  on  tongue.  Mr. 
Arthur  was  remarkin'  oncet  I  talked  too  much, 
an'  your  mother  told'm,  '  Well,  p'raps  that's  so. 
But  with  all  her  faults  I  love  her  still.'  *  With 
all  her  faults  I'd  love  her  stiller'  saysee.  I  never 
forgot  it.  'Twas  awful  smart  o'  Mr.  Arthur, 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  21 

Your  mother  told  me  oncet — '  Martha,  if  you  must 
talk  so  much  I  think  I  must  try  to  learn  you  to 
talk  sense,'  and  try  she  did,  sure  enough.  If  I 
know  anything  it's  her  I  have  to  thank  for  it." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  thinking  of  leaving  me," 
said  Mrs.  Granville  irrelevantly. 

"  Leavin'  you,  miss — I  mean,  ma'am — I  should 
say,  madam!  Who  said  I  was  thinkin'  o'  leavin' 
you,  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  No  one  said  so,  but  of  course  I  know  you 
have — what  you  call  followers — beaus.  And 
some  day  you  will  be  deciding  which  one  to  take 
for  a  husband." 

"  Now  don't  you  go  for  to  fret  about  my  hus- 
band, Miss  Frances,  dear.  Wait  till  the  time 
comes  when  I  have  one  itself.  Then  let  him  do 
the  frettin' — he'll  have  cause." 

"  But  it  is  right  that  you  should  marry  some 
day.  Only — not  quite  yet,  please,  Martha.  Don't 
leave  me  quite  yet.  I  don't  feel  I  can  spare  you — 
and — be  careful.  Don't  make  a  mistake  as — as 
so  many  foolish  girls  do.  Don't  marry  the  wrong 
one." 

;'  Well,  I'm  only  a  ignorant  thing,  for  all  your 
mother  (God  bless  her  for  a  good  an'  wise  lady!) 
tried  to  learn  me  knowledge,  an'  what  she  called 
a  vocabberlerry.  I  don't  know  much,  but  if  you 


22  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

keep  your  eye  out,  you  catch  on  to  some  things 
in  spite  o'  yourself.  An'  I  often  thought,  lookin' 
at  the  gener'l  run  o'  married  folks,  that  the  wedded 
estate  ain't  all  it's  cracked  up  to  be.  Gettin'  a 
husband  is  kinder  like  buyin'  a  hat.  The  one  you 
take,  when  you  get  it  home,  you  mostly  wisht 
you'd  got  the  other  one.  I  might  get  caught  up 
that  way  myself — there's  no  tellin' — but  it  appears 
to  me,  as  I  look  at  it  now,  that  if  I  did,  I 
wouldn't  sit  down  before  the  lookin'-glass  an' 
gawk  at  myself  an'  pull  a  long  face,  till  I'd  cry 
for  rage  at  sight  of  my  ugly  mug.  Nothin'  be- 
comes you  when  you're  like  that.  Nothin'  looks 
good  to  you  when  you  have  to  wipe  away  the 
tears  to  see  it." 

"  No,  nothing  looks  good  to  you  then "  said 

her  listener  wistfully. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  anything  you'd  draw,  be  they 
husbands  or  be  they  hats,  turns  out  all  you'd  hoped 
for,"  continued  Martha.  "  If  I  found  I'd  got  a 
poor  bargain  with  a  man,  same's  I  sometimes 
have  with  what  Hortense  calls  a  '  shappo,'  I'd  do 
pretty  much  with  him  what  I  done  with  it.  I'd 
give  a  sly  pull  to  his  brim,  or  a  pinch  to  his  crown, 
or  I'd  stick  in  another  feather,  or  tweak  out  a 
bow — in  a  way  o'  speakin'.  But  I'd  try  make'm 
match  up  to  what  I  wanted,  without  lettin'  on  I 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  23 

was  makin'  'm  over,  you  understand.  There's 
nothin'  they  hate  more'n  to  think  you'd  like  to 
change  the  style  o'  them.  It  hurts  their  feelin's> 
till  you'd  be  surprised.  An'  if  I  seen  I  couldn't 
make  it  a  go,  I  wouldn't  stop  before  I  put  in  some 
good  licks  on  myself.  The  trouble  ain't  always 
with  your  choice.  There  maybe's  a  kink  in  your- 
self. You  may  be  too  plain,  or  you  may  be  too 
fussy.  It  needn't  take  you  long  to  find  out.  Then 
you  can  put  a  crimp  in  your  hair,  to  furnish  your 
face,  or  you  can  '  try  an'  look  pleasant,'  like  the 
picture-men  say.  But  there's  all  sorts  of  ways  to 
make  a  bad  matter  better,  same's  to  make  it  worse. 
I  tell  you,  though,  what  I  wouldn't  do " 

"Well?" 

"  I  wouldn't  have  the  thing  I'd  refused  first- 
off  hangin'  'round  where  I  could  be  forever  com- 
parin'  him — I  mean  it — with  what  I'd  took.  It's 
too  risky.  Comparin'  ain't  no  earthly  help  if  the 
place  you  got  your  goods  from  won't  exchange 
accommodatin'  for  a  customer,  or  else  take  it  off 
your  hands  an'  give  you  your  money  back.  An' — 
er — marriage  is  that  kind  of  a  shop,  or,  least- 
wise, it  has  the  name  if  not  the  fame  o'  so  bein'. 

"  Now  take  me,  for  instance.  S'pose  I  married 
Pete  an'  then  found  I  had  a  hankerin'  for  Sam. 
D'you  s'pose  I'd  dare  take  any  chances  on  him 


24  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

comin'  'round,  remindin'  me  of  happier  days? 
Not  on  your  life.  A  burnt  child  hadn't  oughter 
meddle  with  edged  tools.  A  blister's  enough,  let 
alone  unnecessary  cuts.  That's  the  way  I  feel 
about  it,  an'  that's  why  I  just  as  lives  stay  single — 
for  the  present." 

The  door  opened  and  closed  noiselessly.  Mr. 
Granville  came  forward. 

"  He  certaintly  is  good  lookin',"  thought  Mar- 
tha, for  the  thousandth  time.  "  That  is,  if  you 
like  '  frozen  dainties,'  as  it  says  in  the  cook-books. 
There's  two  things  Mr.  Granville  reminds  me  of 
every  time  I  look  at'm.  One's  as  if  he'd  swal- 
lowed the  church  an'  hung  his  hat  on  the  steeple, 
the  other  is  a  rat-tearier  dog  about  the  eyes  an' 
mouth.  Just  the  same  huntin',  thin-nosed,  sharp- 
fangled  appearance  he  has  about'm.  As  if,  no 
matter  how  you  tried  to  dodge'm,  he'd  run  you 
down  at  last,  an'  then — '  may  God  have  mercy 
on  your  soul ! '  as  the  marriage-service  says — or  is 
it  the  death  sentence?  " 

Martha  was,  if  anything,  rather  a  favorite  with 
Mr.  Granville.  He  called  her  "  the  Irrepres- 
sible," regarding  her  less  in  the  light  of  a  sub- 
ordinate than  as  some  sort  of  family  functionary 
for  whom  special  rules  and  concessions  must  be 
made.  He  did  not  resent  her  garrulity,  for  Mar- 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  25 

tha  "  knew  her  place  "  and  never  "  presumed  " 
unless  by  tacit  permission.  He  did  not  resent  her 
presence  now,  nor  attempt  to  dismiss  her.  He 
greeted  her,  after  greeting  his  wife,  and  his  man- 
ner was  hardly  more  cordial  to  the  one  than  to 
the  other. 

"  Martha  and  I  have  been  discussing  mar- 
riage," Mrs.  Granville  informed  him  with  an  at- 
tempt at  a  smile. 

"  Ah — discussing " 

Martha's  look  was  benign. 

"  Mrs.  Granville  done  the  dis,  an'  I  done  the 
ens sin' ,"  she  said,  adding,  to  herself,  "  Anythin' 
to  break  the  ice,  as  the  fella  said  when  he  skated 
on  a  thin  place  an'  fell  through." 

"Is  Martha  going  to  be  married?" 

The  question  pounced  out  of  a  pause  with 
an  unexpectedness  that  brought  an  irresistible 
answer. 

'Yes,  sir — no,  sir — yes,  siree,  sir!  "  For  once 
Martha  was  disconcerted. 

"  Martha  has  two  admirers,"  Miss  Frances 
explained.  "  You  know  them,  Lester — Peter  Gil- 
roy  and  Samuel  Slawson.  You  made  openings  for 
them  in  the  office,  don't  you  remember — when  we 
were  engaged — because  I  asked  it?" 

"  So.    Gilroy  is  a  helpful  fellow." 


26  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"Ain't  Sam  Slawson  satisfactory?"  Martha 
inquired. 

"  Tolerably." 

"  Both  are  courting  Martha,"  Mrs.  Granville 
took  it  up  again.  "  I  don't  want  her  to  make  a 
blunder.  Won't  you  advise  her,  Lester?  I  know 
mother  would  be  anxious  to  have  her  take  no 
foolish  step  in  such  a  vital  matter.  Mother  was 
very — fond — of  Martha." 

Mr.  Granville  disposed  of  his  long  person  with 
great  deliberation  in  an  ample  chair. 

"  Perhaps  the  best  advice  in  such  a  case  is 
the  advice  Punch  once  gave  a  correspondent, 
'Don't!'" 

Martha  felt  the  temples  she  was  stroking  throb 
painfully  beneath  her  fingers. 

"  No  wonder !  "  she  said.  "  Punch  did  cer- 
taintly  have  it  tough  with  Judy,  an'  that's  a  fac'. 
Still,  if  the  truth  was  known,  she  had  troubles 
of  her  own.  It  was  six  o'  one  an'  half  a  dozen  of 
the  other — as  it  gener'ly  is.  But  Punch  done  well 
to  tell  the  co-respondent  '  don't,'  all  the  same." 

"  Please  advise  her,  Lester,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Granville  hurriedly. 

'You  like  both  men — Gilroy  and  Slawson?" 
came  from  the  arm-chair,  like  the  snap  of  some 
strong  spring. 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  27 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Any  preference?  " 

"  I  like  one  for  some  things,  an'  one  for  others." 

"Which  do  you  like  for — a  husband?  " 

"  That's  it.  I  couldn't  tell  till  I  try,  an'  then 
maybe  I'd  be  wrong.  If  they'd  only  leave  us  take 
a  sample,  now — or  send  it  home  on  approval. 
But  the  way  things  is,  how's  a  body  goin'  to  be 
sure  she's  suited.  You  might  see  another  style 
you  like  even  more.  Best  look  around  some  be- 
fore you  decide,  I  think,  considerin'  it's  for  bet- 
ter, for  worse,  till  death  you  do  part,  unless 
you're  rich  an'  can  afford  to  go  to  that  place 
out  West  where  they  give  you  a  divorce  while 
you  wait." 

Mr.  Granville  cleared  his  throat. 

"  My  wife  asks  me  to  advise  you,  Martha. 
See  you  profit  by  my  advice.  I  do  not  generally 
give  it  for  the  asking." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Gilroy  is  a  smart  chap — likely  to  make  his 
mark.  He's  clever,  he's  active,  he's  far-seeing. 
He's  what  we  call  a  useful  fellow.  He  will  thrive 
in  business.  If  he  should  lose  one  place  a  dozen 
others  would  stand  open  to  him.  I  dare  say  if  he 
lost  one — girl,  he  could  have  a  dozen  others  in 
her  place,  just  as  good.  He  will  be  rich,  in  his 


28  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

way,  some  day.     Able  to  give  his  wife  a  good 
home. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  Sam  Slawson  is  honest  and 
industrious.  But  he  loses  chances  to  advance  him- 
self. As  I  have  told  him,  he  will  never  get  on 
in  this  world.  Too  many  visions — too  many- 
scruples.  He's  easy-going,  uncalculating.  He 
does  not  look  out  for  himself.  Any  woman  who 
marries  him  will  have  her  hands  full.  He  needs 
somebody  to  look  after  him — see  that  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Harry  don't  cheat  him  out  of  his  boots." 

A  perceptible  period  of  time  passed  after  the 
dry  voice  ceased  speaking.  Then  Mrs.  Granville 
addressed  Martha. 

"  My  husband  thinks  Gilroy  would  be  the  bet- 
ter match,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  sure  he  would  be,"  Martha  assented 
readily.  "  As  he  says,  Sam's  good-hearted  an' 
honest.  You  couldn't  help  likin'  'm.  He  reminds 
you  of  one  o'  them  Saint  Barnardses  dogs  that 
your  mother  used  to  tell  about,  that  goes  out  in 
the  snow  up  the  mountains  for  to  resquer  folks 
from  freezin'  an'  save  their  lives.  But  he  cer- 
taintly  ain't  much  on  the  make,  an'  that's  a  fac'. 
Look  at  his  brothers  an'  sisters,  the  way  they 
impose  on'm.  Saddlin'  him, — the  youngest  of'm 
all— with  the  mother  that's  too  pious  to  cook'm 


"  BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL  "  29 

a  square  meal,  when  he's  earned  it  by  the  sweat 
o'  his  brow.  No,  there  ain't  no  doubt  of  it, 
Peter's  the  best  match  of  the  two — as  matches 
goes." 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  to  remember,"  observed 
Mr.  Granville  with  great  quietness,  but  even 
greater  point,  "  whichever  man  you  marry  don't 
imagine  you  and  the  other  can  keep  up  a  relation 
on  the  Platonic  basis,  Martha.  It  won't  do." 

"  Certaintly  not,  sir."  Martha  acquiesced 
amiably. 

u  I'm  afraid  Martha  does  not  know  what  Pla- 
tonic means." 

Young  Mrs.  Granville's  voice  had  a  tremor 
in  it  that  made  it  sound  like  the  voice  of  an  aged 
person. 

"  If  Martha  does  not  know  what  Platonic 
means,  let  her  look  it  up  in  the  dictionary.  Let 
her  look  it  up  now." 

'  Yes,  sir,"  said  Martha,  and  left  the  room. 

It  was  a  full  fortnight  before  she  saw  either 
of  her  "  beaus  "  again.  Delia  was  charged  with 
a  message  to  each  when  next  he  should  appear 
at  the  area-gate. 

"  The  madam  is  sick.  Martha's  with  her.  She 
can't  come  down." 


30  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

But  at  last  arrived  an  evening  when  she  could 
come  down. 

"  It's  good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you  again, 
Martha,"  said  Sam  Slawson,  who  for  once  in  his 
life  had  got  in  ahead  of  Gilroy. 

"  Well,  I  do'  know  if  that's  a  compliment  or 
not.  It  certaintly  sounds  as  if  I  was  a  dose." 

Sam  smiled.  "  You  know  that  ain't  what  I 
mean.  But  if  you  was  a  dose,  and  bitter  at  that, 
I'd  *  take  '  you,  Martha,  an'  thank  God  for  the 
chance." 

"  O,  come  now,  Sam  Slawson.  Don't  let's  get 
back  on  that  old  subjec'  the  first  go-off.  You  been 
askin'  me  to  have  you  on  the  average  o'  three 
times  an  evenin'  ever  since  we  first  got  acquainted. 
Can't  you  think  o'  some  other  topic  o'  conversa- 
tion? Seems  to  me  I'm  kinder  familiar  with  that, 
an'  familiar-rarity  breeds  contemp',  or  so  the  say- 
in'  is." 

"  It  don't  breed  it,  if  you  care,  Martha." 

"What's  the  news?  I  been  shut  up  so  long  I 
don't  know  a  thing's  been  goin'  on,  an'  you  feel 
kinder  out  of  it  when  you're  like  that." 

"  Well,  one  thing  is,  I  guess  we're  in  for  a  war 
with  Spain.  The  papers  say  Commodore  Dewey's 
been  ordered  to  Manila." 

"  On  account  o'  the  Cubeeans.     Yes,  I  know. 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  31 

I've  heard  about  that.  Captain  Stafford  has  took 
his  troops  down.  Nearly  two  weeks  ago  he  went 
— let's  see,  Peter  was  here  two  weeks  ago  come 
Tuesday,  an'  it  was  the  next  day — Captain  Staf- 
ford was  sent  to  Cuba.  I  hope  to  goodness  he 
don't  get  yella  fever  or  nastolger  or  any  o'  them 
awful  topical  diseases  you  catch  in  the  south.  I 
like  Captain  Stafford.  He's  a  honorable  genT- 
man  if  he  ain't  got  as  much  money  as  some." 

"  Say,  Martha,"  ventured  Sam  timidly — 
"  Talking  about  Captain  Stafford,  I  think  I  ought 
to  tell  you  that  they're  saying — 

Martha  reared  her  head  with  dignity. 

"  If  you  mean  they're  sayin'  he  come  back  be- 
cause he  was  oncet  in  love  with  Miss  Frances, 
an'  can't  get  over  it — well,  s'pose  it's  true.  S'pose 
he  did  come  back?  She  sent'm  away  again  an' 
I  know  it — 'cause  I  took'm  the  letter  an'  she 
wasn't  made  to  write  it  either.  She  done  it  be- 
cause she  knew  'twas  right.  An'  if  you've  nothin' 
better  to  do  than  repeat  silly  gossip  about  two 
purfec'ly  good  ladies  an'  gen'l'men,  you  better  go 
home  an'  not  detain  me,  who  won't  listen  to  it." 

"  I  meant  no  harm,"  protested  Sam. 

"  So  the  fella  said  that  threw  a  burnin'  match 
into  a  tank  o'  karrysene." 

"  Forgive  me,  Martha.    I  didn't  say  it  to  gos- 


32  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

sip.  All  I  meant  was  to  have  you  know  the  sort 
of  talk  that's  going  the  rounds.  I  thought  seeing 
they  make  such  a  kind  of  pet  of  you  here,  I 
thought  you  might  throw  out  a  hint  or  a  warning 
or  something,  where  it'd  do  the  most  good." 

"  Throwin'  out  hints  an'  warnin's  never  does 
no  good.  First  thing  you  know  they  hit  the  wrong 
party  an'  make  no  end  of  trouble.  If  you  want 
to  do  something,  do  it — square  from  the  shoulder, 
straight  for  the  bull's-eye.  But  don't  throw  out 
hints  or  warnin's." 

"  Say,  Martha — I'll  follow  your  advice.  I 
want  to  do  something,  so  here  it  goes,  straight 
from  the  shoulder,  square  for  the  bull's-eye.  I 
love  you.  Will  you  marry  me?  " 

Miss  Carrol  sat  silent  for  a  moment  under  the 
blow,  gazing  straight  before  her  with  eyes  of 
unusual  gravity. 

"  I'll  tell  you  something,  Sam,"  she  said  pres- 
ently. "  I  s'pose  you  know  that  Peter  gimme  the 
refusal  of'm  too.  Well,  it's  been  kinder  trouble- 
some havin'  the  couple  of  you  proposin'  to  me  so 
constant  at  the  same  time,  for  there's  no  doubt 
about  it,  you  both  have  good  points,  as  men  goes. 
The  other  night  Miss  Frances  got  talkin'  to  me 
about  it,  an'  the  end  was  she  in-dooced  Mr.  Gran- 
ville  to  gimme  the  benefit  o'  his  regal  advice — free 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  33 

grates,  for  nothin',  as  the  sayin'  is.  Nacherly  I'd 
ought  to  act  accordin'  to  what  he  told  me." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?"  Sam's  voice  was  a 
trifle  husky. 

Martha  visibly  braced  to  the  effort.  "  I'll  be 
open  and  aboveboard  with  you,  Sam.  I  owe  it 
to  you.  You  mayn't  like  what  I  say,  but  it's  got 
to  be  told  one  time  or  other,  first  or  last." 

"Well?" 

"  Mr.  Granville  said  Peter's  a  winner.  He 
says  he's  bound  to  get  there.  He  says  anybody'd 
give  Peter  a  job  any  time,  he's  so  smart  an' 
pushin'.  Seemed  like  he  couldn't  get  enough 
singin'  Peter's  praises.  An'  that  means  somethin', 
I  can  tell  you,  comin'  from  Mr.  Granville — con- 
siderin'." 

This  time  it  was  Sam  who  braced. 

"  Peter  deserves  it,"  he  said  ungrudgingly. 
"  Peter's  good  for  all  the  praise  Mr.  Granville 
gave  him." 

"  Glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  Martha  responded. 
"Then  after  he  got  through  throwin'  bokays  at 
Peter,  Mr.  Granville  started  in  on  you." 

"Throwing  'bokays'?" 

"  We-ell,  not  eggsac'ly.  He  said  you  was  a 
good  enough  fella,  but  kinder  chicken-hearted  an' 
retirin' — the  sort,  if  another  party  got  in  ahead 


34  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

of'm  would  turn  'round  an'  go  home  without 
even  takin'  his  chance  ringin'  the  doorbell  on  his 
own  account.  Mr.  Granville  says  a  fella  like 
that'll  never  get  on  in  this  world.  He  says  the 
woman  that  marries  him  will  have  her  work  cut 
out  for  her.  He  says  if  Peter  lost  his  job  he'd 
get  another  without  turnin'  a  hand,  which  it  would 
be  the  same  with  a  wife.  But  if  you  get  bounced 
— well,  the  fat'd  be  in  the  fire  for  sure." 

Sam  pondered.  "  That's  about  right,"  he  ad- 
mitted, shaking  his  head  sadly.  "  That's  about 
the  size  of  it." 

"  Certaintly  it  is,"  said  Martha. 

"  I  can  see  how  things  look  to  you,  Martha," 
he  continued.  "  The  way  Mr.  Granville  put  them, 
I  know  just  how  they  seem.  And  he's  not  far 
wrong.  I  never  thought  of  it  that  way  before.  I 
guess  I  was  too  taken  up  caring  for  you,  to  mind 
anything  else  much.  I  set  such  store  by  you,  it 
blinded  me  to  everything  besides.  I  knew  Gilroy 
was  a  hustler  and  all  that,  but  I  kept  telling  my- 
self— '  hustling  ain't  all  there  is  in  the  world,'  and 
I  just  plastered  myself  up  with  the  thought  that 
a  feller  who  loved  a  girl  like  I  love  you  would 
have  to  make  something  of  himself  in  the  end — he 
couldn't  help  it.  Now  I  can  see  what  a  big  chump 
I've  been.  You  must  have  laughed  in  your  sleeve 


"BY  ADVICE  OF  COUNSEL"  35 

at  me,  but  I  will  say  you  never  showed  it.  You've 
been  awful  nice  to  me,  Martha.  I  wish  I  had 
more  to  offer  you.  I  wish  I  had  more  of  a  show 
alongside  of  Gilroy.  But  I  don't  blame  you  one 
bit  for  choosing  him.  He  can  give  you  what  I 
couldn't  and — you  ought  to  have  the  best, 
Martha." 

Martha  continued  looking  at  him  with  her  fine, 
direct  gaze.  "  Certaintly  I'd  oughter,"  she  said 
with  composure.  "  I'm  awful  sorry  to  disappoint 
you,  Sam,  but  you  see  how  it  is,  don't  you?  Peter 
says  he'll  put  velvet  under  my  feet,  whatever  good 
that'll  do  me.  And  it'll  be  comfortable  to  know 
I've  no  call  to  worry  about  the  way  I'll  be  pro- 
vided for.  I'll  be  well  looked  after.  Peter's  a 
real  catch!  " 

Sam  nodded.    "  Shoor,"  he  acquiesced. 

"  An'  you,"  continued  Martha—  "  Mr.  Gran- 
ville  says  the  girl  that  takes  you  will  have  her 
hands  full " 

Sam  winced. 

"  So — I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  I'm  real 
sorry  to  disappoint  you,  Sam.  But  I've  thought 
it  over  careful  and  serious,  an'  if  all  Mr.  Gran- 
ville  says  is  true,  I  don't  see  but  what  it's  up  to 
me  to — marry  you — 'cause  Peter  can  shift  for 
himself." 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE 

A)  they  approached  the  tenement  building  in 
which   her  mother  lived,    Martha    Carrol 
stopped  short. 

"  Say,  Sam,"  she  addressed  her  colossal  com- 
panion, "  I  guess  I  better  go  in  alone.  I  guess 
you  better  go  along  home  by  yourself." 

Sam  Slawson  regarded  her  with  a  troubled, 
doubtful  look. 

"  Why,  I  thought — your  mother — liked  me," 
he  protested,  puzzled. 

"  So  she  does,"  returned  Martha  with  brisk 
acquiescence,  "  but  there's  a  difference  between 
likin'  an'  likin'.  The  way  a  woman  likes  a  fella 
likes  her  daughter  is  quite  another  pair  o'  shoes 
from  the  way  she  likes  the  same  party  when  told 
her  daughter's  goin'  to  marry'm.  See?  An'  as 
that's  what  I'm  aimin'  to  do  at  the  present  moment 
I  guess  you  better  folia  the  crowd  an'  keep  movin', 
an'  let  me  step  up  alone,  till  I  find  out  how  she 
takes  it" 

36 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  37 

Still  Sam  lingered. 

"  I'll  wait  for  you  down  here,"  he  said  in  his 
slow,  ruminative  fashion. 

Martha  shook  her  head.  "  Doncher,  Sam. 
Take  my  advice.  You  run  home,  like  a  good  little 
boy,  an'  tell  your  own  mother.  I'm  quite  willin' 
to  give  you  the  first  joy  o'  that  job,  an'  don't  you 
forget  it!  " 

As  she  spoke  Martha  wheeled  about,  turning 
into  the  dusky  entrance  before  which  they  stood. 
The  next  moment  her  tall,  erect  figure  was  lost 
to  sight  in  the  shadows  of  the  hallway. 

She  and  Sam  had  taken  advantage  of  this  first 
mild  evening  of  early  Spring  to  ride  downtown 
in  an  open  trolley-car.  Now,  the  close  air  of  the 
unventilated  house  caught  at  Martha's  throat. 
Her  nostrils  dilated  disgustedly.  "  It's  like 
openin'  a  can  o'  somethin'  you  wouldn't  like,  in 
the  first  place,  that's  just  on  the  turn !  "  she  mut- 
tered, as  she  mounted  the  stair.  "  I  certaintly  do 
wish  I  had  the  price  to  put  mother  in  a  better  place 
than  this,  her'n  the  childern.  They  ought  to  be 
in  a  better  place,  an'  yet— 

From  within  the  closed  door  on  whose  knob 
she  presently  laid  her  hand  a  confused  chorus 
issued,  whistling,  singing,  a  sudden  burst  of 
boisterous  laughter,  a  note  of  good-natured  pro- 


38  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

test.  Martha  turned  the  knob,  opened  the  door. 
For  one  second  the  chorus  dropped,  then  rose 
again  fortissimo. 

"  Hi,  mother !  here's  Martha !  " 
"  Marsa,  Marsa,  see  my  new  dess!  " 
Martha  clapped  her  hands  over  her  ears. 
"  For  goodness'  sake!  "  she  exclaimed,  pretending 
to  scowl  at  the  children  clinging  to  her  skirts, 
u  Clear  out,  the  whole  of  you.  I  haven't  long  to 
stay.  I  come  to  talk  to  mother.  I  declare,  a 
body  can't  hear  herself  think  with  the  row  you're 
raisin'.  Here's  a  quarter.  Run  along,  the  raft 
of  you,  an'  get  yourselves  ice-cream  cones  or  some- 
thin'  to  stop  your  mouths.  Take  aholt  of  Re- 
becca's hand,  Ruth,  an'  let  Bobby  lift  you  over 
the  crossin's  like  a  lady.  Janey,  you  go  along 
with'm.  You  ain't  too  grown-up  for  ice-cream 
cones  yet,  if  you  are  goin'  on  sixteen,  an'd  like  to 
make  out  you're  a  young  lady." 

a  If  Janey's  goin'  on  sixteen,  I  bet  I  know 
how  old  you  are,"  Bobby  sang  out  challeng- 
ing^- 

Martha  laughed. 

"  Lizzie  Connors,  she  says  you're  an  old  maid," 
Rebecca  cut  in  with  resentment — resentment 
against  Martha  as  well  as  against  Lizzie. 

'  True  for  Lizzie.     So  I  am.     An  old  parlor- 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  39 

maid.  What  did  you  think  I  was?  A  young 
cook?" 

Rebecca  regarded  such  flippant  dodging  of 
grave  issues  with  serious  disapproval. 

"  Lizzie  means  you  ain't  married,"  she  shot 
forth  bluntly,  with  intent  to  kill. 

"  My,  my!  Now  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  " 
ejaculated  Martha. 

Bobby  eyed  her  slyly.  "  Say,  how  old  are  you, 
anyhow,  Martha?"  he  plied  with  insinuating 
suavity. 

"  As  old  as  my  tongue,  an'  a  little  older  than 
my  teeth." 

"  Lizzie  Connors's  got  one  big  sister  married, 
an'  another  one  goin'  to  be.  Lizzie  says  when 
you're  an  old  maid,  it  shows  nobody'll  have 
you." 

Rebecca  controlled  an  inclination  to  cry.  It  is 
hard  to  hear  your  family  stigmatized,  to  bleed 
and  die  in  its  defense,  only  to  have  it  treat  the 
matter  with  easy  indifference.  She  was  not  at  all 
taken  in  by  Martha's  mock  solemnity. 

'  You  don't  say  so !  Ain't  that  too  bad.  The 
next  time  you  see  Lizzie  just  you  tell  her  you  told 
me  what  she  said,  an'  say  I  felt  simply  awful  about 
it.  Say  I  wondered  wouldn't  Lizzie's  sister  gimme 
the  loan  of  one  of  her  steadies — a  little  one  she 


40  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

mightn't  be  usin'  much  at  the  time,  till  I'd  see  if, 
maybe,  I  couldn't  take  a  turn  out  of'm,  while 
I'm  waitin'  for  a  fella  of  my  own." 

Mrs.  Carrol,  rolling  down  her  sleeves,  came 
forward  to  seat  herself  in  the  "  grand "  base- 
rocker  Martha  had  given  her.  Her  tall,  well- 
proportioned  figure  was  a  matured  model  of 
Martha's  Amazonian  own.  It  was  easy  to  see  in 
the  mother  what  the  daughter  would  develop  into 
in  the  years  to  come — straight,  massive,  strong, 
steady,  carrying  on  her  broad  shoulders,  as 
if  it  were  a  feather-weight,  the  burden  of  the 
universe. 

"  Quit  teasin'  your  sister,  childern  dear,"  the 
mother  said  in  the  rich  north-country  brogue  that 
all  her  years  in  America  had  not  banished  from 
her  tongue, — "  Quit  teasin'  your  sister,  an'  leave 
us  be,  the  way  we'd  have  a  minute  of  quiet  by 
ourselves,  an'  I'd  hear  what  she's  come  to  tell  me, 
the  da'." 

Mild  as  was  her  accent,  the  youngsters  knew 
what  they  knew,  and  got  themselves  off  without 
further  parley. 

As  soon  as  they  were  well  out  of  the  way,  Mrs. 
Carrol  turned  to  Martha,  "  I'm  ready  for  ye 


now." 


'  Then — Rebecca  needn't  be  fashin'  herself  any 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  41 

more  about  Lizzie  Connors.  She'll  soon  be  havin' 
a  married  sister  of  her  own,"  said  Martha. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  The  mother 
and  daughter  regarded  each  other  steadily  from 
level  eyes.  What  was  going  on  in  the  deep  bosom 
of  either  it  was  impossible  to  tell. 

"  Well,  well,  now  what  do  you  think  of  that!  " 
Mrs.  Carrol  let  fall  at  last  with  quiet  imper- 
sonality. 

"  I  come  to  tell  you  as  soon  as  I  fairly  knew 
myself.  I  only  made  up  my  mind  last  night.  Too 
late  to  be  askin'  would  she  let  me  out  to  have 
a  word  with  you,"  explained  Martha. 

Mrs.  Carrol  recrossed  her  folded  arms,  settling 
herself  more  solidly  in  the  base-rocker  which 
sighed  beneath  her  weight.  "  I'm  thinkin'  Miss 
Frances,  I  should  say,  Mrs.  Granville,  will  be 
sorry  to  lose  ye,"  she  ruminated. 

"  That's  what  she  said.  But  she  said  it  was 
time  I  was  settlin'  down  in  a  home  of  my  own. 
I'd  waited  long  enough,  she  said.  I  told  her  I 
was  in  no  hurry.  If  she'd  any  use  for  me,  I'd 
just  as  lief  call  it  off.  Said  she:  'We're  the 
same  age,  Martha.  The  two  of  us  grew  up  to- 
gether under  my  dear  mother's  roof,  an'  well  I 
know  the  store  she  set  by  you.  'Twas  her  valued 
your  mother  more  than  any  cook  she  ever  had, 


42  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

so  when  your  mother  was  married  it  was  from  our 
house,  the  same  as  if  she  was  one  of  our  own 
family.' " 

Mrs.  Carrol  nodded.  "  'Twas  the  true  word 
she  spoke.  A  grand  weddin'  I  had.  The  tabl' 
alone  was  a  picture  to  behold.  An'  me  in  a  silk 
dress,  brand-new  out  of  the  store,  pearl-gray  it 
was  wit'  lines  o'  white,  an'  lace  to  me  neck  an' 
hands.  Little  I  thought  that  da'  I'd  so  soon  be 
partin'  wit'  it.  But  the  times  was  hard,  an'  'twas 
better  sell  the  dress,  itself,  than  see  you  childern 
lack,  the  way  you'd  be  comin'  thick  an'  fast,  the 
lot  of  youse,  so  work  as  I  would,  I  couldn't  keep 
ye  clad  an'  fed.  An'  your  poor  father  never 
lucky,  but  always  meanin'  as  well  as  the  best,  till 
he  was  took  wit'  his  mortal  sickness  an'  died  ere 
ever  little  Ruth  was  born,  five  years  ago  come 
Shrove  Chuesda'.  The  other  eight  has  had  a 
better  chance  than  you,  Martha.  'Tis  often  I 
think  'twas  a  pity  I'd  to  put  ye  out  to  service  so 
young.  Miss  Frances  was  naught  but  a  baby  at 
twelve,  an'  you  the  same  age,  doin'  scullery-work 
in  her  mother's  kitchen,  for  that  we'd  need  of 
your  wages  at  home.  Well,  well !  " 

Martha  heard  her  mother  out  with  respectful 
attention,  although  she  knew  the  old  tale  by 
heart.  The  moment  the  musing  voice  had  ceased, 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  43 

she  took  up  her  own  narrative  where  she  had 
dropped  it. 

"  Miss  Frances  said,  '  I'd  never  stand  in  the 
way  of  your  marryin',  for  that's  the  natural 
state,'  said  she.  '  An'  girls  will  do  it,  no  matter 
what.'  I  knew  well  enough  she  was  thinkin'  how 
she'd  slipped  up  on  it  with  himself  on  her  own 
account,  so  I  gave  my  tongue  the  whip  an'  let  it 
run,  to  take  her  mind  off  her  sorra.  An'  I  had 
her  smilin'  in  no  time,  in  spite  of  herself.  I  told 
her  the  girls  wasn't  the  only  ones  to  blame.  I 
said,  for  every  bride,  blushin'  behind  her  delusion 
veil,  there's  got  to  be  a  bridegroom  was  barefaced 
enough  to  pop  the  question  in  the  first  place.  I 
said,  '  the  girls  be  contented  enough  if  the 
fellas  had  never  been  born,  to  upset  us  with  their 
blarney.  What  you  don't  know  won't  worry  you.' 
Then  Miss  Frances  said,  '  Well,  Martha,  what  my 
dear  mother  done  for  yours,  I  will  do  for  you. 
I'll  give  you  your  weddin'  from  this  house,  the 
same  as  if  you  was  a  blood  relation.  You  may 
ask  your  fam'ly  an'  friends,  an'  his  fam'ly  an' 
friends.  They  shall  all  see  you  married  with  cere- 
mony,' said  she." 

The  quick  Irish  blood  mounted  to  Mrs.  Carrol's 
face.  "Married  with  ceremony!"  she  quoted 
touchily.  "  Sure,  she'd  not  be  thinkin'  a  daughter 


44  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

o'  mine  would  be  married  without  it.  The  way 
she'd  be  jumpin'  over  a  broomstick,  like  a  gipsy, 
itself." 

"  She  didn't  mean^that  at  all,  mother,"  Martha 
reassured  her.  "  She  meant  style — she'd  give  me 
a  stylish  send-off,  so  they'd  all  be  wonderin'  at 
the  pumps  an'  vanity  of  me.  But  I'd  have  to  be 
married  right  off." 

"Why  for?" 

"  Because  she's  goin'  abroad  in  a  month's 
time." 

"  Will  himself  stay  behind?  " 

"  No,  that's  the  trouble.  Mr.  Granville'll  take 
her.  She  said  if  I  didn't  want  to  be  married 
right  off,  she'd  give  me  the  price  of  the  weddin' 
in  money,  an'  I  could  take  my  choice,  for  she 
wouldn't  urge  me,  she  said." 

"Well,  well!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Carrol. 

"  It's  my  choice  between  a  hundred  dollars  an' 
the  time  of  my  life!  " 

Mrs.  Carrol  breathed  deep  over  the  wonder 
of  it.  "  A  hunderd  dollars !  An'  what  would 
himself  be  sayin'  to  that?  "  she  asked  with  proud 
relish. 

"You  mean  Mr.  Granville?" 

"  I  mean  himself." 

Martha  was  silent. 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  45 

"  What  would  Peter  Gilroy  be  sayin'  to  that?  " 
her  mother  persisted. 

"  Very  little,"  said  Martha. 

"Eh?" 

'  Very  little.  Savin'  your  presence — just 
'  damn  !  '  " 

Mrs.  Carrol's  placid  countenance  underwent  a 
telling  change.  "  You  mean,"  she  stammered 
slowly,  "you — don't — mean ?" 

"  I'm  goin'  to  marry  Sam  Slawson,"  Martha 
helped  her  out  charitably. 

It  took  her  mother  a  perceptible  space  to  rally 
from  the  shock. 

"  Well,  well !  "  she  said.     "  Well,  well !  " 

"  I  thought  you  liked  Sam,"  Martha  ventured 
at  last. 

"  So  I  did.  So  I  do.  I  like'm  good  enough. 
I've  nothin'  against'm.  He's  a  good-natured 
young  fella,  an'  better-lookin'  than  Gilroy,  I'll 
say  that  for'm.  But  'twas  Gilroy  I  always  thought 
as  you'd  marry.  He's  been  keepin'  company  wit 
chu  as  long  as  Sam,  if  not  longer.  It's  been  nip 
an'  tuck  between'm  which'd  get  you.  But  I'd 
kinda  got  used  to  thinkin'  'twas  Pete  you'd 
marry.  Gilroy  is  bound  for  to  make  his  way, 
Martha." 

Martha  nodded.     "  Sure !     That's  one  o'  the 


46  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

reasons  why  I  didn't  take'm.  I  couldn't  be  cer- 
tain I'd  like  his  way  after  he'd  made  it." 

"  Would  you  be  sure  you'd  like  Sam  Slawson's 
better,  do  you  think?" 

"  He  ain't  like  to  make  any,"  replied  Martha 
promptly. 

Mrs.  Carrol  sighed.  "  Then  he'll  be  your  poor 
father  over  again,"  she  brought  out  with  a  wistful 
inflection. 

"  Yes,  I'm  allowin'  for  that,"  Martha  observed. 
"  I  ain't  any  great  shakes  on  figurin',  so  it's  took 
me  longer'n  it  might — well,  we'll  say  Lizzie  Con- 
nors' sisters,  for  instance,  to  do  my  little  sum. 
But  I  guess  I  got  it  now  as  good  as  I'm  ever  likely 
to.  I  added  up  Peter,  an'  I  substracted  Sam, 
an'  I  divided'm  both  by  each  other,  an'  multiplied 
what  they  come  to  by  myself,  and  in  the  end  I 
just  got  the  same  answer  every  time.  Sam  was 
it.  I'd  rather  take  my  chances  with  Sam  poor 
than  Gilroy  rich.  Same's  I  guess  Miss  Frances 
would  be  glad,  if  she  had  it  to  do  over  again,  to 
take  her  chances  with  Captain  Stafford,  rather 
than  Mr.  Granville.  Or  you  with  father,  rather 
than  Ryan,  an'  all  his  money,  an'  bein'  a  boss- 
contractor  an'  alderman  to  boot  (which  I  wish  to 
goodness  some  one  would,  good  an'  thora,  the 
cocky  old  rogue!)  " 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  47 

For  a  moment  after  Martha  ceased  speaking 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  regular 
breathy  protest  of  the  base-rocker  springs,  under 
Mrs.  Carrol's  steady  swaying. 

"  I  can  see  you're  disappointed,  mother,"  Mar- 
tha observed  at  last.  "  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  know 
you'd  set  your  heart  on  Gilroy." 

Mrs.  Carrol  very  deliberately  changed  the  posi- 
tion of  her  arms  again,  this  time  folding  the  right 
over  the  left,  instead  of  the  left  over  the  right. 

"  It's  not  to  say  '  set  my  heart  on  Gilroy,'  she 
corrected  mildly.  "  Only  I  was  thinkin',  if  you 
could  make  up  your  mind  to'm  once,  it  would  be 
a  great  thing,  the  way  you'd  likely  be  settled  for 
life,  an'  no  more  fret  about  gettin'  along  for  anny 
of  us." 

A  shadow  passed  over  Martha's  face.  "  I 
thought  of  that  myself,"  she  admitted.  "  O' 
course,  if  I  marry  I  can't  live  out,  like  I'm  doin' 
now,  but  I  can  take  jobs  by  the  day  an'  I  will,  an' 
by  this  an'  by  that  I'll  manage  to  look  out  for 
you  an'  the  childern,  the  same's  I've  been  doin' 
right  along. 

Mrs.  Carrol  shook  her  head.  "  It'll  be  dif- 
ferent," she  objected.  "  It  can't  help  but  be  dif- 
ferent. You  think  that  way  now,  but  when  you're 
married  you'll  have  your  own  to  look  out  for. 


48  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

An'  with  Gilroy  there'd  be  no  need  o'  your  raisin' 
your  hand  to  do  a  stroke  o'  work  outside  your 
own  door.  Gilroy  has  a  good  head  on  his  shoul- 
ders. He'll  do  fine  alone." 

"  That's  just  what  I  thought,"  assented  Mar- 
tha. "  He'll  do  fine  alone.  So  what's  the  use  me 
marryin'  'm?  There's  no  good  rubbin'  butter  on 
a  fat  goose." 

"  Certaintly  not.  But  marryin'  ain't  like  or- 
derin'  a  dress-pattren  home  on  approval,  the  way 
you  could  send  it  back  if  it  didn't  suit.  You  got 
your  husband  for  keeps.  When  you  go  to  the 
altar  with  a  man,  you're  tyin'  a  knot  with  your 
tongue  you  can't  undo  with  your  teeth." 

"Sure!"  said  Martha.  "That's  why  I  ain't 
hurried  decidin'.  I  figured  it  out  'twas  better  do 
my  thinkin'  before  than  after." 

"An'  the  end  of  it  is — Sam?"  queried  the 
mother. 

"  The  end  of  it  is — Sam,"  the  daughter  averred. 

Mrs.  Carrol  bowed  as  if  to  the  inevitable. 
"Well,  well!  "  she  murmured.  "It's  himself  is 
the  lucky  lad !  " 

"  '  Himself  '  is  always  '  the  lucky  lad.'  Any 
fella  gets  a  decent,  well-meanin'  girl  stand  up 
with'm  is  a  lucky  lad.  And  any  girl  gets  a  decent, 
well-meanin'  man  stand  up  with  her  is  lucky,  the 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  49 

same.  It's  six  o'  one  an'  half  a  dozen  of  the 
other.  It's  up  to  both  parties  to  make  a  marriage 
go.  One  alone  can't  do  it.  The  two  o'  them  has 
to  pull  together,  an'  do  it  fair.  I  never  see  a 
couple  yet  dancin',  where  the  girl  expected  the 
man  to  haul  her  'round  the  room  without  touchin' 
her  toes  to  the  floor.  Nor  playin'  games,  where 
the  fella'd  look  to  his  pardner  to  do  all  the  work, 
an'  him  have  only  the  sport.  But  marryin' !  One 
o'  the  couple  is  as  likely  as  not  to  want  to  sit  back 
easy,  an'  have  the  whole  load  pulled  by  the  other 
party.  It's  a  skin  game,  as  I  see  it  played  nowa- 
days, an'  I  don't  wonder  it  turns  out  a  failure  nine 
times  outa  eight.  What's  honest  an'  honorable 
in  one  sort  o'  combine,  is  honest  an'  honorable  in 
another.  Anyhow,  that's  the  way  I  look  at  it, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  play  my  hand  just  as  fair  an' 
open  as  I  know  how — like  I  would  if  I  was  playin' 
for  fun.  I'm  makin'  my  choice  with  the  free  mind 
God  give  me.  Whatever  happens,  it's  nobody's 
fault  but  my  own.  It's  up  to  me  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  even  if  it  ain't  quite  as  good  as  I  expected, 
an'  I  mean  to  try  to  do  my  share  an'  not  expect 
Sam  to  work  the  happiness-factory  all  alone  by 
'mself,  with  me  a  dead  weight  hanging  on  to'm, 
cloggin'  the  machinery.  By  the  way,  before  I  go 
back — how's  Ruth's  ankle?  Did  you  take  her  to 


50  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

the  doctor  like  you  was  sayin'  you  would  when  I 
was  here  last?  " 

Mrs.  Carrol  nodded.  "  I  did,  an'  he  said  she'd 
have  to  go  under  a  operation.  It's  a  queer  thing's 
the  matter  wit'  her.  He  wrote  it  down  on  a  piece 
of  paper  the  way  I  wouldn't  be  forgettin'  it. 
Wait  till  I  show  you.  Here  it  is.  Serus — I  guess 
he  left  out  some  letters  an'  it's  serious  he  meant — 
Serious  Penostettis.  Now  what  do  you  think  o' 
that!  A  child  her  age  havin'  the  Serious  Peno- 
stettis. You'd  think  she'd  the  wit  of  a  woman 
grown." 

A  mist  had  gathered  to  trouble  Martha's  vision. 
She  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  peering  out  into 
the  dusk.  When  she  faced  her  mother  again  her 
eyes  were  unclouded,  her  manner  as  contained  as 
ever. 

"  It'll  break  her  heart  to  be  away  from  you, 
poor  kid!  Couldn't  she  have  the  operation  at 
home?  I'd  rather  pay  more,  so's  the  young  one 
wouldn't  want  for  anything." 

Mrs.  Carrol  shook  her  head.  "  The  surgeon 
said  it's  to  the  dispensary  she  must  go.  He  said, 
before  he  could  know  for  certain  'twas  the  serious 
trouble  is  in  her  leg,  he'd  to  send  some  of  her 
blood  they  took  to  the  Health  Department,  the 
way  they'd  examine  it  there  to  see  was  the  sick- 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  51 

ness  somethin'  else — worse.  He  told  me  the  fellas 
at  the  Health  Department  would  examine  her 
blood  for  nothin',  but  if  it  should  be  done  another 
way  it  would  '  cost  like  Sam  Hill !  ' — his  very 
words.  He  said  she'd  be  better  looked  after  at 
the  dispensary  than  at  home,  for  there  they'd  the 
nurses  an'  all  to  their  hands.  It'll  cost  a  pretty 
penny  as  it  is.  Three  dollars  a  week  for  the 
bed  she'll  lay  on " 

"  I'll  pay  it,"  said  Martha. 

The  children  were  just  sauntering  back  from 
their  treat  when  they  spied  the  big  sister  on  the 
doorstep.  In  the  vague  shadows  behind  her,  a 
more  substantial  shadow  loomed. 

"  Hi,  it's  Sam  Slawson!  "  shouted  Bobby,  dart- 
ing forward  on  the  run.  "  Hullo,  Sam!  " 

Sam  laid  a  good-comradely  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder.  "  Hullo  yourself !  " 

"  I'm  glad  you  decided  to  come  home,"  Martha 
observed.  "  I  kinda  thought  you'd  took  a  train 
for  Boston  or  somewheres,  the  raft  of  you,  you 
were  gone  so  long.  Tired  are  you,  Ruth?  Did 
the  ice-cream  taste  good?" 

Sam  Slawson  bent,  picked  up  the  child,  and 
perched  her  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  know  a  little 
girl  who's  going  to  ride  upstairs." 

"  Say,  Rebecca,"  said  Martha,  detaining  that 


52  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

abused  young  person  when  the  others  had  started 
to  swarm  after  Sam.  "  Say,  the  next  time  you 
see  Lizzie  Connors  you  can  tell  her  I  been  thinkin' 
over  what  she  said,  an'  I  come  to  the  conclusion 
I  better  get  a  move  on  before  it's  too  late.  Sam 
Slawson's  willin'  to  help  me  out,  seein'  you  feel 
so  bad  about  me  bein'  an  old  maid.  It's  mighty 
good-natured  o'  Sam,  considerin'.  We're  goin' 
to  be  married,  him  an'  me,  together,  the  two  of 
us.  Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that  for  a  sister 
willin'  to  oblige?" 

Rebecca's  face  glowed.  "Really?  Truly?" 
she  questioned  skeptically.  "  Ask  Sam,"  Martha 
advised. 

Rebecca  did  not  ask  Sam.  She  was  convinced 
by  the  new  note  in  Martha's  voice. 

;<  Then  we'll  have  a  weddin' — same's  Lizzie 
Connors'?"  Rebecca  demanded  eagerly. 

"  Sure !  "  said  Martha.  "  We'll  have  a  weddin'. 
But  not  on  your  life  it  won't  be  like  Lizzie  Con- 
norses.  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  weddin'  that  is  a 
weddin' !  The  grandest  thing  ever  you  saw.  Just 
you  wait!  I'll  show  you  something!  " 

Though  she  spoke  in  jest,  the  idea  of  a  grand 
wedding  really  took  hold  of  Martha— took  hold 
of  her  with  a  curious  compelling  force  of  which 
she  was  not  in  the  least  aware. 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  53 

Her  young  life  had  been  one  of  rigid  self- 
denial  growing  out  of  her  sense  of  responsibility 
to  the  family  at  home  for  every  cent  she  could 
earn.  She  regarded  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
she  should  hand  over  her  wages  to  her  mother  at 
the  end  of  every  month.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
to  question  the  arrangement,  nor  to  depart  from  it. 
It  was  not  a  cause  for  complaint,  any  more  than  it 
was  a  cause  for  complaint  that  she  was  "  big  " 
when  other  girls  her  age  were  delicately  built  and 
slender;  that  she  was  doing  scullery-work  in  the 
kitchen  when  "  Miss  Frances,"  the  only  little 
daughter  of  the  house,  whose  birthday  fell  but  a 
month  later  than  her  own,  was  treated  as  a  baby, 
cuddled  and  coddled  and  never  by  any  chance 
obliged  to  do  what  displeased  her.  Such  a  con- 
dition of  affairs  was,  apparently,  life.  Martha 
took  life  very  philosophically.  She  accepted  her 
portion  ungrumblingly. 

But  this  question  of  her  wedding  bore  a 
different  relation  to  her.  It  was  a  special 
dispensation.  A  personal  benefit  falling  to 
her  share  with  no  reference  whatsoever  to  any 
other  individual.  A  hundred  dollars  or  the  time 
of  her  life!  She  accepted  the  situation  as  she  had 
those  of  less  pleasing  aspect,  without  question  or 
cavil.  But  gradually  she  found  herself  consulting 


54  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

the  newspapers  for  reports  of  society  doings  in 
which  Spring  weddings  conspicuously  figured.  In- 
dustriously studying  the  Sunday  Supplements,  pic- 
turing Easter  Brides  in  full  regalia.  Little  by 
little  her  imagination  responded  to  the  stimulus 
and  she  saw  herself,  a  white-robed  vision,  shim- 
mering, queenly,  passing  slowly  up  the  dim  church 
aisle  in  bridal  robe  and  veil. 

"  But,  Martha,"  Mrs.  Granville  protested, 
"  you  haven't  decided  what  you  want  to  do. 
Time  is  flying  and  if  you  wish  to  have  your  wed- 
ding here  we  must  begin  preparations  at  once. 
Remember,  I  sail  in  a  fortnight" 

'  Yes'm,  Miss  Frances,  but  you  see,  I  sorta 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  while  my  little  sister's 
so  sick  in  the  hospital.  A  body  couldn't  compose 
herself  or  take  a  relish  in  anything  much,  with 
one  of  the  fam'ly  bed-fast." 

4  Then  perhaps  I'd  better  give  you  the  money 
outright.  Is  that  what  you  would  like,  Martha, 
to  have  the  money  in  your  pocket  to  spend  on  your 
wedding  as  you  like?  " 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Martha. 

Every  detail  of  the  wedding  as  it  suggested  it- 
self to  Martha's  mind  Rebecca  conscientiously  re- 
ported to  Lizzie,  and  Lizzie's  proud  spirit  was 
chastened  by  the  knowledge  that  one  moving  in  so 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  55 

magnificent  an  orbit  should  condescend  to  shed 
some  of  her  effulgence  on  her. 

Every  time  Martha  came  home  she  had  some 
new  and  still  more  elaborate  program  to  reveal. 
The  children  gathered  about  listening  open- 
mouthed  to  her  superb  plans.  No  fairy-tale  could 
have  held  their  imaginations  so  captive.  The 
grand  satin  dress  she  was  to  wear,  the  "  delusion 
veil " !  Martha  described  them  so  graphically 
Janey  could  fairly  see  their  sheen  and  shimmer, 
with  her  eyes  shut. 

A  couple  of  times  Mrs.  Carrol  ventured  to 
suggest  that,  while  they  were  talking,  the  weeks 
were  flying,  and  before  they  knew  it  Mrs.  Gran- 
ville  would  be  on  her  journey,  "  the  way  the 
weddin'  couldn't  be  in  her  house,  surely,  when 
it's  to  be  closed  up  itself."  And  once  she  made 
so  bold  as  to  hint  that  even  the  princely  sum  of 
one  hundred  dollars  would  hardly  meet  such  lavish 
expenditures  as  Martha  had  in  mind. 

"  Never  you  worry,"  returned  Martha.  "  I 
only  expect. to  be  married  oncet,  and  if  it  does 
take  a  bit  more  than  the  hunderd,  why  I  don't 
care.  I'm  going  to  have  the  time  of  my  life,  an' 
don't  you  forget  it!  I  told  Mrs.  Granville  I'd 
rather  wait  than  not  get  all  that's  comin'  to  me, 
an'  when  you  rush  a  thing  through,  like  I'd  'a'  had 


56  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

to  rush  my  weddin',  if  I  tried  get  it  out  of  the 
way  before  she  leaves,  I'd  be  losin'  the  best  o'  the 
game.  So  she  gimme  the  hunderd,  like  she  said 
she  would,  an'  when  the  time  comes  I'll  maybe 
'hire  a  hall  somewheres,  if  this  is  too  small  for  all 
the  crowd  I'm  goin'  to  invite.  Besides,  Ruth'll  be 
home  then,  walkin'  around  as  good  as  now.  I 
wouldn't  want  to  be  married  with  the  poor  kid 
languishin'  in  the  hospital,  sick-a-bed  with  the 
doctor." 

"  They  give  me  what  they  called  '  a  statement ' 
this  mornin',  for  the  time  she's  been  there  already. 
It's  fifteen  dollars.  Would  ye  believe  it,  the  way 
the  time  does  be  flyin' !  An'  she'll  be  there  longer 
still,  till  I  pay'm  more  yet,"  mourned  the  mother. 

Martha  retired  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  out  of 
the  range  of  Bobby's  prying  eyes,  where  after 
certain  incursions  into  the  hidden  recesses  of  her 
underwear  she  brought  forth  a  roll  of  bills. 

'  You  ain't  breakin'  into  the  money  Miss 
Frances  give  you  for  your  weddin'  ?  "  Mrs.  Carrol 
asked,  watching  anxiously. 

Martha  laughed.  "  Sure  I'm  not.  You  couldn't 
extract  a  cent  o'  that  from  me  if  you  was  to  gimme 
laughin'-gas.  No.  I'm  just  borra'in'  it  off'n  my- 
self till  I  get  aholt  of  my  wages  at  the  end  o'  the 
month,  to  pay  myself  back." 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  57 

The  mother  took  the  money  reluctantly.  The 
wages  Martha  referred  to  would  be  the  last 
coming  to  her  from  the  girl's  "  situation." 
Mrs.  Carrol  had  no  great  faith  in  "  goin' 
out  by  the  da'  for  a  young  married  woman." 
She  saw  her  main  source  of  income  seriously 
affected,  if  not  entirely  cut  off.  Even  if  Janey 
left  school  and  took  a  place,  the  lack  would  not 
be  supplied. 

That  night,  when  Alderman  Dan  Ryan  dropped 
in,  as  he  frequently  did,  for  "  a  bite  and  a  sup  " 
with  the  widow  Carrol,  he  found  her  in  a  sin- 
gularly compliant  mood,  extraordinarily  amenable 
to  reason.  He  reasoned. 

'  You  better  be  looking  out  for  yourself,  for 
if  you  don't,  one  thing  is  certain,  your  children 
won't  look  out  for  you.  A  mother  can  support 
ten  children,  but  ten  children  can't  support  one 
mother.  You  know  me,  and  I  know  you.  You've 
had  troubles  of  your  own,  and  so've  I.  I  got  the 
green  to  pay  for  a  good  home,  and  you  can  gimme 
the  good  home.  Come  now,  it's  a  bargain,  and  if 
you'll  have  the  best  of  it,  why,  I've  no  kick  com- 
ing. I'm  generous,  I  am.  I'll  do  well  by  you 
and  by  your  children.  Not  many  men  would 
say  as  much,  let  alone  do  it.  But  there's  noth- 
ing mean  about  me.  I  got  an  open  hand. 


58  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

I'm  a  free  spender.  No  pockets  in  the  shroud! 
That's  the  way  I  put  it:  no  pockets  in  the 
shroud!" 

Martha  opposed  the  match  with  less  vehemence 
than  Mrs.  Carrol  had  expected.  The  girl  re- 
membered her  mother's  good-natured  acceptance 
of  Sam,  in  the  face  of  her  obvious  disappointment, 
and  it  would  have  softened  her,  even  if  her  new 
sense  of  woman's  immemorial  right  to  choose 
"  her  own  man  "  had  not  tended  to  make  her 
lenient  in  the  first  place.  But  her  own  feeling 
was  that  while,  of  course,  her  mother  was  "  free 
to  marry  the  fella  if  she  wanted'm,"  it  was  mani- 
festly impossible  she  should  want  him. 

"  I'd  far  rather  give  up  marryin'  Sam  for  the 
present,  an'  take  another  place,  than  you'd  swalla 
Ryan  for  the  sake  o'  your  salt,  which  he's  too 
much  pork  for  a  shillin',  as  it  is." 

14  You've  no  call  to  say  that,  Martha,"  her 
mother  reproved  her.  "  He  never  done  you  anny 
harm.  And  he'll  look  out  for  the  childern.  He's 
passed  me  his  word  on  that.  'Tis  few  men  would 
saddle  themselves  with  such  a  raft." 

Martha  cogitated.  "  It's  all  right  if  you 
like'm,"  she  said.  And  Mrs.  Carrol  replied  in 
the  same  words  and  tone  she  had  used  in  speaking 
of  Sam:  "I  like'm  good  enough.  He's  a  good- 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  59 

natured  fella,  an'  free  wit'  his  money.  He'll  be 
kind  to  the  childern." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what,"  Martha  returned, 
drawing  her  chair  closer  to  her  mother's,  bending 
forward  to  give  her  words  special  emphasis,  "  I 
tell  you  what,  you  got  to  have  a  decent  weddin'. 
Nothin'  fancy,  you  understand,  like  mine's  goin' 
to  be,  but  a  quiet,  genteel  blow-out,  with  a  bite  o' 
somethin'  sweet,  an'  a  mouthful  o'  cider  or  lemon- 
ade to  wash  it  down,  so's  a  body'll  know  it  from 
a  funer'l.  If  you're  startin'  to  do  the  thing  at 
all,  let's  do  it  right." 

The  mother  shook  her  head.  "  There's  too 
manny  ways  for  to  use  the  money,  if  I  had  it," 
she  said  wistfully.  "  I'd  a  tony  weddin'  oncet, 
when  I  was  young,  like  yourself.  I'll  never  forget 
it.  Now,  I'll  be  satisfied  if  we  have  the  feastin' 
afterwards,  as  ye  might  sa',  the  way  the  childern'll 
get  three  good  square  meals  a  da',  to  keep'm 
nourished  the  time  they're  growin'." 

"  If  you're  only  marryin'  for  the  childern,  we'd 
all  better  turn  to  an'  have  some  style  about  us, 
earnin'  better  money.  Miss  Janey  can  shake  some 
of  her  fine  young  lady  airs  an'  settle  down  to 
business  livin'  out,  or  workin'  in  a  shop  some- 
wheres,  instead  o'  goin'  to  the  high  school,  the 
same  as  she  was  Miss  Rocky-Carnegie.  Ellen 


60  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

can  take  another  situation  where  she'll  bring  home 
more,  an'  Jimmy  can  hand  over  all  his  wages  in 
the  future,  like  a  little  man,  an'  like  me  before'm. 
If  we  can't  do  one  way  we'll  do  another,  but  we 
could  make  out  to  get  along  without  your  mar- 
ryin'  Ryan,  unless  you're  so  dead  stuck  on'm  you 
can't  help  it." 

Mrs.  Carrol  was  just  in  time  to  control  a  ges- 
ture that  would  have  betrayed  her.  "  I'm  goin' 
to  marry  Ryan,"  she  averred.  "  I  passed'm  me 
word,  an'  I'll  hold  by  it.  An'  don't  you  be  for 
upsettin'  the  childern,  Martha.  They're  eatin' 
their  white  bread  now.  Leave'm  make  the  best 
of  it.  They'll  have  to  chew  the  dry  crusts  soon 
enough,  same  as  the  rest  of  us,  if  they  live  an' 
luck." 

"  Well,  then,  I'm  goin'  to  see  you  married  like 
you  should  be,"  said  Martha. 

"  Where'll  the  money  be  comin'  from?  " 

"  I  d'know.  But  it'll  be  comin'  from  some- 
wheres,  an'  don't  you  forget  it." 

"  Not  outa  your  hunderd?  " 

Martha's  chin  went  up.  "  Not  if  I  know  it. 
This  is  the  time  the  others  can  pony  up,  for  a 
change.  That  hunderd,  every  red  cent  of  it,  is 
goin'  for  my  weddin'.  It  was  given  to  me  for  that 
purpose,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  use  it  for  it.  For  oncet 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  61 

in  my  life  I'm  goin'  to  splurge  myself  for  all  I'm 
worth,  an'  take  everything's  comin'  to  me." 

4  You're  right,  Martha,"  approved  her  mother. 

It  seemed  wisest  all  around,  but  especially  in 
the  view  of  the  elaborate  nuptials  ahead,  that  the 
simpler  wedding  should  be  despatched  with  as 
much  promptness  as  possible. 

"  It'll  get  us  outa  the  way,  an'  leave  Martha 
free  for  to  give  all  her  attention  to  her  own  grand 
ball,"  Mrs.  Carrol  explained  to  the  willing  Ryan. 
Ryan  grinned  and  nodded  across  the  supper-table. 
And  later,  when  Martha  came  in,  he  approached 
her  with  easy  complaisance  and  a  significantly  out- 
stretched hand.  Ryan's  bland  face,  beneath  the 
tilted  brim  of  his  square-topped  "  derby,"  oozed 
patronage. 

'  You  mother's  been  telling  me  you  and  Sam 
Slawson  are  fixing  to  give  a  ball.  Here's  just  a 
little  something  to  set  it  rolling.  Just  a  starter. 
Something  to  begin  on.  Plenty  more  where  this 
comes  from.  You  can  get  what's  needed  and  call 
on  me  for  more  when  this  is  gone.  Nothing  mean 
about  me.  I'm  open-handed,  I'll  say  that  much 
for  myself.  I  spend  freely.  No  pockets " 

"What's  that?"  Martha  inquired,  jerking  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  hand,  then  without 
waiting  for  an  answer:  "Say,  Mister  Ryan,"  she 


62  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

spoke  with  extreme  quietness  but  unmistakable 
point,  "  say,  Mister  Ryan,  don't  you  try  any  of 
your  ward-politics  games  on  me.  You  ain't  my 
candidate,  nor  ever  was.  But  my  mother's  puttin' 
you  into  office,  an'  what  she  says  goes.  Only,  us 
two — you  an'  me — better  understand  each  other 
right  off  an'  then  there  won't  be  any  trouble.  You 
got  a  strut  on  you  like  a  turkey-cock  full  o'  pepper, 
because  you  think  you're  rich.  You  got  an  idea 
money  takes  the  trick  every  time,  an'  all  you  got 
to  do  is  put  your  nickel  in  the  slot  to  pull  off 
anything  or  anybody  you  have  a  mind  to.  Now, 
let  me  tell  you  a  little  secret.  When  you  marry 
my  mother  you're  goin'  to  get  as  good  as  you 
give,  an'  don't  you  forget  it!  She  ain't  goin'  to 
be  beholden  to  you  for  nothin'.  It'll  be  an  even 
deal  between  you,  an'  so  don't  you  try  to  buy  up 
me  or  Sam,  for  we  ain't  on  sale.  Nor  don't  you 
try  to  be  chesty  with  my  mother  or  with  the  chil- 
dern.  As  for  me,  what  I  get  I  can  pay  for,  or 
I  don't  get  it,  see?  You  can't  take  a  hand  at  any 
ball  o'  mine,  without  me  givin'  you  a  bat  you 
won't  forget  in  a  hurry.  Don't  you  set  out  to 
do  nothin'  but  act  right  by  my  mother  an'  the 
kids  or — well,  you  see  the  size  o'  me.  I  ain't  a 
little  fairy,  am  I?  I  lived  out  ever  since  I  was 
twelve  an'  I  done  the  sorta  light  horse-work,  as 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  63 

I  call  it,  that  the  lady-help  goin'  the  rounds  nowa- 
days is  too  dainty  to  lift  their  hands  to.  So,  even 
if  I  hadn't  'a'  been  born  that  way  in  the  first  place, 
I'd  'a'  got  a  muscle  on  me  like  John  L.  Sullivan's. 
You  got  to  treat  my  mother  an'  the  childern  right, 
an'  no  braggin'  an'  castin'  up  about  it,  either, 
or — you  an'  me'll  have  a  little  sluggin'-match, 
which  you'll  never  live  to  tell  the  tale.  That's 
that.  Now,  if  you  like  you  can  call  it  off.  I  guess 
my  mother  won't  mind.  Only,  don't  you  ever 
offer  again  to  put  me  up  for  any  runnin'  expenses 
ain't  any  of  your  affairs  to  foot,  compreney?  " 

Mr.  Ryan's  pomposity  fell  away  from  him  in 
folds,  till  his  spirit  seemed  to  stand  before  her 
stripped,  naked.  He  hid  his  hand — the  hand  she 
had  spurned — in  his  pocket.  When  he  drew  it 
out  again  it  was  empty.  He  raised  it  awkwardly 
to  shift  his  hat  to  a  less  rakish  angle  on  his  fore- 
head. 

;<  Try  takin'  it  off,  in  the  house,  when  you're 
speakin'  to  a  lady,"  suggested  Martha  amiably. 

As  if  acting  under  hypnosis  Ryan  obeyed. 

"  You — you're  a  holy  terror,  Martha,"  he  stam- 
mered weakly. 

Martha  favored  him  with  a  judicial  gaze.  "  I 
like  you  better  this  minute  than  ever  I  done  be- 
fore," she  confessed  candidly.  "  You're  a  kinda 


64  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

big  windbag,  o'  course,  but  when  a  body  squeezes 
you,  you  don't  squeal.  There's  something  in  that. 
I  hope  you'll  like  the  weddin'  I'm  fixin'  for  my 
mother.  It'll  be  plain  but  genteel.  I  invite  you 
to  be  present." 

"  Thank  you !  "  said  Ryan. 

"  Also,  you  can  come  to  mine — an'  bring  your 
wife."  Her  graciousness  was  equal  even  to  this. 
"  You  can  come  to  mine,  which  it'll  be  a  differnt 
pair  o'  shoes  from  yours,  I  can  tell  you.  But  you 
couldn't  expect  the  stylish  layout  your  second  try 
you'd  get  your  first,  now  could  you?  " 

"  I  could  not,"  Ryan  conceded. 

Such  being  the  case,  Martha  proceeded  to  "  do 
the  thing  up  brown."  Once  Mrs.  Granville  had 
sailed  and  the  house  was  closed,  the  girl  found 
herself  free  to  come  home,  whereafter  there  were 
no  more  hitches  or  delays. 

Society,  in  loftier  strata  than  the  Carrols',  ap- 
pears to  extract  pleasurable  excitement  from  "  a 
crush."  The  fact  that  the  little  rooms  were 
crowded  to  suffocation  did  not  in  the  least  inter- 
fere with  the  general  enjoyment. 

Ryan,  relieved  and  exhilarated  after  the  vows 
had  been  taken,  bade  everybody  "  whoop  it  up!  " 
and  Martha,  presiding  as  mistress  of  ceremonies, 
saw  to  it  that  they  did. 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  65 

The  Slawsons  were  out  in  full  force,  as  were 
the  Ryans  and  those  of  the  Carrol  connection  who 
did  not  stand  upon  their  dignity  and  refuse  to 
come  on  grounds  of  general  and  particular  disap- 
probation. 

"  Ma  "  Slawson,  occupying  a  seat  of  honor, 
treated  with  every  consideration,  did  her  best  to 
wet-blanket  the  whole  affair  in  her  own  dry  way. 
Whenever  "  the  next  wedding  on  the  carpet "  was 
joyously  referred  to,  and  she  was  congratulated 
as  being  the  mother  of  the  prospective  happy  man, 
she  whimpered  out  her  wish  that  "  Martha  hada 
took  Gilroy  instead  o'  Sam." 

"  Never  you  mind  her,  Martha !  "  Andy  Slaw- 
son  advised  cordially.  "  The  rest  of  us  are  good 
and  glad  you've  took  Sam.  You're  the  girl  to 
make  a  man  of  him,  if  anybody  can." 

Martha  reared  a  proud  head. 

"  Sam  don't  need  me  or  any  girl  to  make  a 
man  of'm.  He's  a  man  without  any  assistance 
from  nobody.  An'  what's  more,  he's  about  the 
only  man — the  only  real  man  I  have  the  pleasure 
to  be  acquainted  with." 

"My,  but  you're  touchy,  Martha!"  laughed 
Nora-Andy  indulgently.  "  When  you're  married 
to  Sam  as  long  as  I  am  to  Andy,  you  won't  stand 
up  for  him  so  almighty  stiff." 


66  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Andy  beamed  approval  on  Martha. 

"  I  like  you  for  it,"  he  averred  heartily,  and 
then  and  there  confided  to  her  what  he  called  "  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime  to  make  big  money."  A  man 
he  knew  would  "  let  him  in  on  the  ground  floor  " 
of  a  grand  scheme  for  the  price  of  a  bite  of  bread 
and  a  mouthful  of  milk.  The  difficulty  was  he 
happened  not  to  have  the  price  by  him  at  present, 
though  he  would  have  it,  and  plenty  more,  by  the 
end  of  the  week.  The  man,  however,  wouldn't 
hold  the  chance  open  that  long.  He  demanded 
"  spot  cash."  It  would  be  "  a  sin  before  God  " 
to  let  such  a  chance  slip  through  his  fingers,  for 
the  lack  of  a  few  dollars,  which  he'd  pay  back  with 
a  fat  lump  of  his  profits  in  a  fortnight's  time." 

"  Do  you  think  Ryan  would  let  me  have  the 
loan  of  it,  if  you  told  him  'twas  sure  money?  " 
asked  Andy. 

"  He  prob'ly  would,  only  I  wouldn't  telPm," 
returned  Martha.  "  I  ain't  askin'  no  favors  of 
Ryan." 

Nora-Andy  tossed  her  head.  "  It's  no  favor 
anybody  is  askin'  you  to  ask.  If  Ryan  let  Andy 
turn  over  a  bit  of  cash  for'm,  till  it's  be  swelled 
to  twice  or  three  times  its  size  in  a  couple  of 
weeks,  I  guess  there'd  be  no  call  to  speak  of  it  as 
*  a  favor,'  excepting  on  Ryan's  side." 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  67 

"  All  the  same,  I'll  ask  you  not  to  mention  it 
to'm,"  said  Martha. 

"  Well,  Martha,"  Ryan  addressed  her  after 
the  last  guest  had  gone,  "  you  give  us  a  bang-up 
wedding,  and  no  doubt  about  it.  Your  mother 
has  been  telling  me  it's  all  your  doing.  I  certainly 
am  obliged  to  you." 

"Don't  mention  it!"  returned  Martha.  "If 
my  mother  is  pleased,  that's  all  I  ask." 

Mrs.  Ryan's  face  flushed  emotionally.  "  I 
never  looked  for  to  have  such  a  grand  weddin' — 
again,"  she  confessed  simply. 

Martha  laughed.  "  It's  nothin'  to  what  I'll 
have  myself.  This  was  good  enough,  an'  I'm  glad 
you  like  it,  but  when  my  own  time  comes,  I'll  know 
how  to  do  it  better." 

Her  own  time  did  not  seem  to  come  as  punc- 
tually as,  at  first,  she  had  expected. 

May  passed,  then  June,  and  still  Martha  was 
unready.  Then  one  hot  evening — to  be  exact  it 
was  the  second  of  July — Sam  took  a  stand. 

"  Say,  Martha,  I'm  tired  waiting.  I  want  you 
to  marry  me.  I  don't  care  about  the  wedding.  I 
want  you !  " 

"  All  right,  Sam." 

"  When'll  you  marry  me?  " 

"  Whenever  you  say." 


68  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  To-morrow?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  choose.  But  we  couldn't  be  married 
without  a  license.  We  better  get  the  license  to- 
morrow." 

"And  then?" 

"  I'll  marry  you  next  day — the  Fourth.  That'll 
be  a  good  day.  We'll  come  in  for  a  celebration 
at  the  city's  expense." 

"  D'you  mean  it,  Martha?  " 

"  I  mean  it,  Sam." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ryan,  with  the  rest  of  the  family, 
were  "  to  make  a  day  of  it  at  Coney."  Martha 
had  begged  off  in  the  beginning. 

"  It's  Sam's  holiday.  He'll  like  to  go  off  some- 
wheres  quiet.  There's  been  a  whole  lot  of  hulla- 
baloo lately,  an'  likely  more  to  folia,  an'  Sam 
feels  kinda  he'd  relish  a  day  off  in  the  country, 
all  alone  by  himself — I  mean,  with  only  me  along." 

"  That's  right.  You  go  off  with'm  where  he 
wants  you  to,  Martha,"  concurred  the  mother,  out 
of  the  wisdom  of  her  ripe  experience. 

The  Fourth  dawned  noisy  and  hot.  Martha 
rose  early  to  get  the  picnickers'  huge  luncheon- 
baskets  packed,  then  saw  the  merry  crowd  safely 
off,  calling  cheerful  good-bys  to  them  over  the 
banisters  as  long  as  they  were  within  sound  of 
her  voice.  Nothing  in  her  face  or  manner  be- 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  69 

trayed  her,  even  to  her  mother.  She  was  her 
usual  composed,  entirely  competent  self,  even 
when  Sam  appeared.  It  was  Sam  who  moved  as 
if  in  a  dream,  silent,  mastered  by  an  emotion  too 
deep  for  outward  expression. 

They  went  uptown  and  were  married.  At  the 
close  of  the  ceremony,  the  minister's  wife,  who 
had  consented  to  act  as  witness,  shook  Martha 
kindly  by  the  hand. 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  happy,  my  dear!  "  she  said 
maternally. 

Martha's  look  was  one  of  quiet  confidence. 
"  Thank  you,  ma'am.  So  do  I  hope  so.  If  I 
ain't  it'll  be  my  own  fault.  I  got  a  good  man." 

They  took  refuge  from  the  breathless  heat  and 
the  glare  of  the  sun  on  the  asphalt,  in  the  first 
trolley  they  could  hail.  Riding  to  the  end  of  the 
line  they  took  another  car.  Then  still  another. 

They  ate  their  luncheon  under  green  trees, 
birds  winging  above  them  in  the  blue,  insects  hum- 
ming over  the  scented  grass.  Sam  looked  at  the 
ring  on  Martha's  finger,  and  swallowed  hard.  He 
could  hardly  see  to  take  the  great  sandwich  she 
offered  him.  Martha,  too,  looked  at  the  ring. 

"It's  an  awful  nice  one,  Sam!"  she  said. 
"  Good  an'  heavy  an'  narra,  like  Mrs.  Granville's, 
same's  I  like'm.  It  musta  cost  you  a  lot." 


70  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Sam  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  silent  shake 
of  the  head. 

"  An'  all  I  got  for  you,  for  your  weddin' 
present,  was  them  pair  o'  measly  old  suspend- 
ers. I  wanted  to  get  a  real  tony  pair,  but 
the  ones  I  liked  come  to  twenty-five  cents 
more'n  these,  so  I  couldn't  get'm,  for  these  took 
all  I  had." 

Sam's  eyes  met  hers  in  a  long  look. 

u  All  you  had — out  of  the  hundred  dollars  Mrs. 
Granville  gave  you?  " 

"  That,  an'  my  wages  too,"  confessed  Martha 
serenely.  "  You  see,  first-off  there  was  little  Ruth. 
Thank  God  she's  well  now,  but  the  hospital  an' 
all  took  a  good  slice  o'  money.  An'  then  there 
was  mother's  weddin'.  That  cost  some  too,  an' 
Ellen  an'  Jimmy  didn't  see  their  way  to  help  me 
out  on  it.  An'  mother  had  to  be  married  tabble- 
dote,  or  whatever  they  call  it,  to  keep  Ryan  where 
he'd  never  be  able  to  cast  it  up  to  her.  With  a 
man  like  you  it  wouldn't  matter.  But  Ryan's  got 
a  sorta  natural  growth  o'  vanity  on'm,  you'd  have 
to  keep  shavin'  it  down,  or  it'd  be  croppin'  up 
fresh  all  the  time,  an'  givin'm  too  much  chin.  An' 
then — well — a  little  sum  I  lent  a  party  kinda's  got 
lost  in  the  shuffle.  I  knew  it  would  when  I  lent  it, 
so  I've  myself  to  blame  for  takin'  the  risk.  Any- 


THE  TIME  OF  HER  LIFE  71 

how,  it's  never  come  back  to  me  an',  there's  no 
chance  now  it  ever  will,  an'  so " 

"  But  the  happiness  you  took  in  your  wedding! 
The  time  of  your  life !  "  lamented  Sam. 

"  I'm  havin'  it  now,"  said  Martha. 


CHAPTER  III 
HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY 

SAM  and  Martha  Slawson  had  been  married 
precisely  a  fortnight  when  Sam,  returning 
home  after  a  long,  hot  working-day  "  on  the 
job "  in  "  lawyer  Granville's "  office,  found 
Martha  waiting  for  him  at  their  door,  a  look  on 
her  face  as  arresting  as  a  raised  forefinger. 

"What's  the  matter?  "  he  inquired  at  once. 

"  O,  nothin'  much.  A  kinda  surprise,  in  a 
way.  But  nothin'  that  won't  wait  for  you  to  eat 
your  dinner  before  you  hear  it." 

"  I'd  rather  hear  it  right  off.  What's  hap- 
pened?" 

Martha  began  to  "  dish  up." 

"  I  like  these  rooms  first-rate,  Sam,"  she  ad- 
dressed him  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  plied  briskly 
back  and  forth  between  stove  and  table.  "  I  cer- 
taintly  do  like'm  first-rate.  For  just  we  two 
they're  awful  snug  an'  cozy." 

Sam,  standing  before  the  sink,  dashing  cold 
72 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  73 

water  vigorously  over  his  head  and  forearms, 
made  no  response. 

Martha  continued,  "  An'  yet,  I  suppose  a  real 
flat'd  be  handier,  specially  if  we'd  another  in 
fam'ly.  Flat 's  made  so  convenient  now.  I  never 
see  the  like,  the  thoughtful  way  they're  buildin'  'm 
these  days.  There's  a  young  married  party — a 
sorta  poor-relation  o'  Mrs.  Granville's — she's  got 
a  real  tony  apartment  up  in  the  eighties,  on  the 
west  side.  She  don't  like  the  west  side.  I  heard 
her  tellin'  Miss  Frances — I  should  say,  Mrs. 
Granville — that  nothin'  about  her  husban's  losin' 
his  fortune  was  harder  on  her  than  the  havin'  to 
move  to  the  west  side." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  west  side?  "  asked 
Sam,  energetically  falling  to  work  upon  his 
heaped  plateful  of  corned  beef  and  cabbage. 

"  Nothin'  's  the  matter  with  it,  exceptin'  the 
swells,  in  what  they  call  '  the  court  end  o'  the 
town,'  turns  up  their  noses  at  it.  Miss  Katherine 
Ronald  ast  me  oncet,  as  English  as  Johnny  Bull 
'mself,  though  she  was  born  an'  brought  up  in 
this  same  little  town — says  she,  '  It's  ver-ry  sunny 
over  they-ar,  isn't  ut?  ' — the  same  as  if  '  ut '  was 
the  other  end  o'  the  world,  or  the  Lord  had  made 
the  east  side  shady,  to  go  with  some  o'  the  nobs 
livin'  there  on  money  they  ain't  earned.  I  told 


74  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

her,  *  Yes,  it  was  gener'ly  sunny  on  the  west  side 
of  a  shiny  day,'  an'  I  never  cracked  a  smile  to 
give  it  away  I  was  laughin'  at  her.  But  what  I 
was  goin'  to  say  is,  there's  real  decent,  respectable 
flats  you  can  live  in  these  days,  if  you  have  the 
price.  The  one  Miss  Frances's  cousin's  moved 
into,  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  the  convenient  way 
them  rooms's  laid  out.  The  maid's  room  is  just 
between  the  kitchen  an'  the  dining-room.  Ain't 
that  tasty — for  the  maid?  If  she  wants  to,  there's 
nothin'  in  the  world  to  pervent  her  from  layin' 
abed  mornin's  while  she  stirs  the  oatmeal  with 
one  hand  an'  sets  the  table  with  the  other.  The 
man  planned  that  flat,  you  can  take  it  from  me,  he 
was  the  workin'-girl's  friend." 

Sam  raised  his  eyes  to  look  at  her.  His  level 
brows  flickered  uncertainly  a  moment,  then  settled 
into  a  puzzled  knot.  He  did  not  speak,  however, 
and  Martha  proceeded  without  prodding. 

"  I  went  up  to  see  mother  to-day.  It's  fairly 
surprisin'  the  comfortable  way  she's  fixed.  It'd 
do  your  heart  good  to  watch  the  sun  pourin'  in  her 
windas,  when  she  ain't  pulled  the  awnin's  down 
to  keep  it  out.  What  do  you  think  o'  that! 
Awnin's!  Ryan  certaintly  is  doin'  noble  by  her 
an'  the  childern.  You'd  think  he  was  a  fairy  step- 
father, the  way  he  spoils  the  young  'uns.  Mother 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  75 

says  he  hands  over  the  money  brave  as  a  lion  an' 
never  a  grunt  out  of'm,  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
if  the  bills's  large.  Mother  looks  ten  years 
younger,  since  ever  she  married'm,  an'  Ruth's  as 
fat  as  butter." 

Sam  nodded  appreciation. 

"  Queer  how  us  two,  mother  an'  me,  hit  the 
bull's-eye  on  husban's,  ain't  it?  An'  neither  of 
us  much  of  a  shot,  when  you  come  to  look  at  us. 
I  always  said  it  was  better  be  born  lucky  than 
rich,  an'  I  believe  it.  Many  mightn't  fancy  Ryan 
in  the  first  place.  But  oncet  you  got'm  trimmed 
down  good  an'  thora,  he'll  sit  up  an'  beg,  or  roll 
over  an'  play  dead  dog,  like  a  little  man.  Mother 
wants  you  to  come  up  an'  see'm,  now  they're  set- 
tled. She  says  it'd  do  you  good  to  get  out  into 
the  open  air  oncet,  into  a  place  where  the  rooms 
are  so  you  can  swing  a  cat  in'm,  to  say  nothin* 
o'  windas  lettin'  in  the  cool  breeze,  when  there 
is  any." 

Sam  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork. 

"I  thought  you  liked  these  rooms,  Martha?'* 
he  brought  out  after  a  pause.  "  You  said  you 
did,  when  we  took  them.  That's  only  two  weeks 
ago,  if  it's  as  much.  Have  you  soured  on  them 
already?  " 

Apparently    Martha    was    too    occupied    with 


76  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

something  she  had  poised  on  the  ice  in  the  re- 
frigerator, which  had  to  be  removed  with  great 
care,  to  answer. 

"  I  made  you  a  bit  o'  cold  jelly,  Sam,"  she  in- 
formed him  presently.  "  It's  somethin'  Miss 
Frances's  grand  chef-cook  showed  me  how.  He 
calls  it  a  '  frozen  dainty.'  He  says  you'd  relish 
it  in  hot  weather.  I  don't  know  as  mine's  so 
dainty — (it  run  over  the  form  an'  got  mixed  with 
a  couple  o'  other  things  before  I  scooped  it  up  an' 
put  it  back) ,  but  it's  frozen  all  right,  all  right,  for 
I  just  cracked  the  dish  gettin'  it  part  company 
with  the  ice.  Wanta  try  some?  " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  served  him 
a  heaping  saucerful.  He  made  no  attempt  to 
touch  it. 

"Ain't  you  even  goin'  to  try  it,  Sam?  "  Mar- 
tha questioned. 

Sam  swallowed  hard. 

"  I'm  wondering  about  what  you  said,"  he  re- 
turned gravely. 

Martha's  spoon  stopped  midway  between  her 
plate  and  her  lips. 

"Said?" 

"  Well,  if  you  didn't  exactly  say  it,  you  meant 
it,  I  guess.  You  don't  like  these  rooms  any  more. 
They  look  pretty  poor  to  you,  after  your  mother's 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  77 

place.  I  didn't  think  you'd  get  discontented  so 
soon,  Martha.  You  knew  you  were  marrying  a 
poor  man  when  you  took  me,  and  turned  down 
Peter  Gilroy.  But  I  thought  you  knew  what  you 
were  doing  and  would  be  satisfied  with  what  I 
could  give  you." 

"  So  I  am,  Sam,  but 

"  I  know  as  well  as  you  this  place  here  is  stuffy 
and  hot  and  close,  but  it's  all  I  can  make  out  to 
pay  for." 

"  Sure  it  is,  Sam — only — 

Sam  rose  to  his  feet,  pushed  his  chair  back  care- 
fully, replaced  it  with  equal  orderliness,  and  be- 
fore Martha's  bewildered  wits  had  had  time  to 
collect  themselves,  had  caught  up  his  cap  and  gone 
out,  downstairs,  into  the  street. 

Martha  gazed  blankly  at  the  door  through 
which  he  had  passed. 

"  My,  but  ain't  he  touchy!  " 

The  sigh  that  followed  was  barely  audible. 
Martha  turned  to  and  "  did  up  "  her  dishes  with 
despatch.  She  had  no  more  than  finished,  when 
there  was  a  tap  on  the  door.  Without  turning 
from  the  cupboard  she  called  in  no  uncertain 
voice: 

"Come  in!" 

The  door  swung  open,  a  tall  figure  came  for- 


78  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

ward  into  the  room.    Martha  looked  around,  her 
eyebrows  lifting  in  surprise. 

"Hullo,  Dennis!"  she  greeted  him,  her  tone 
losing  some  of  its  ring. 

Dennis  Slawson's  eyes,  traveling  quickly  about 
the  room's  limited  area,  halted  as  they  reached 
Martha  and  riveted  themselves  on  her  face. 

"  I  guess  you  weren't  expecting  to  see  me  again 
so  soon,"  he  threw  out  tentatively. 

Martha  leaned  back  against  the  cupboard 
frame,  seeming  to  meditate. 

"  Well,  considerin'  how  lately  we  met —  '  she 
returned  with  good-nature.  "  Sit  down,  now 
you're  here,  won't  you?" 

Dennis  took  a  chair. 

"  I  said  to  Sarah  this  afternoon  as  soon  as  you 
left," — he  broke  off  suddenly.  "  Where's  him- 
self?" 

"  Out  for  a  stroll.  It's  kin-da  hot  indoors  these 
nights." 

Her  perfect  poise  seemed,  for  some  rea- 
son, to  abash  Dennis,  seemed  to  make  the 
awkward  pause  that  followed  peculiarly  his 
own,  in  no  sense  hers.  He  fathered  it  with  a 
clumsy  cough. 

"  I  bet  you  went  and  did  what  we  warned  you 
not  to.  I  bet  you  gave  it  to  him  straight,  and  he 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  79 

got  up  on  his  ear  and  walked  off  in  a  rage.  That's 
Sam  all  over.  Say,  ain't  I  right?  " 

Martha  folded  her  arms  across  her  bosom  and 
contemplated  her  burly  brother-in-law  without 
flinching. 

"You  are — not!  "  she  averred  at  last.  "  But 
if  you  wanta  know  what  I  did,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  did.  I  took  the  good  advice  you  an'  Sarah 
handed  out  to  me  this  afternoon  so  generous.  I 
tried  to  '  break  it  to'm  gently! '  Break  it  to'm! 
I  didn't  get  in  the  first  crack  before  he  was  up 
an'  off  like  a  shot  from  a  shovel.  Sarah  told  me, 
'  Take  the  advice  of  a  old  married  woman  with 
experience.'  An'  you  told  me,  '  Take  the  advice 
of  his  own  brother,  which  I  know  Sam  like  a  book.' 
An',  more  fool  I,  I  done  what  you  said,  an' — 
slipped  up  on  it  fierce,  an' — well,  here  I  am !  " 

"And— he  ain't?" 

"  He  certainly  ain't." 

"He's  gone  off,  then?" 

"  He  certaintly  has  gone  off." 

Dennis  Slawson  weighed  the  situation. 

"  He'll  come  back,"  he  comforted  her  pres- 
ently. 

Martha  laughed. 

'  You  bet  your  life  he'll  come  back.  I  ain't 
hurryin'  'm  none,  mind  you.  I'll  give'm  till  ten 


8o  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

o'clock  to  come  back  by  'mself.  An'  then,  well, 
if  he  ain't  in  by  ten,  why,  I'll  just  wanda  out  an' 
kinda  fetch'm.  Oh,  I  ain't  worryin'  any  about  his 
comin'  back." 

"  Sam  always  was  a  queer  dick,"  Dennis  vol- 
unteered. "  You'd  never  know  what  was  going 
on  in  his  mind.  He'd  stand  for  what  the  rest 
of  us  would  kick  like  the  mischief  at,  and  then 
when  you'd  think  you  had  him  where  you  wanted 
him,  he'd  take  offense  at  an  innocent  word  you 
dropped,  maybe,  and  go  off  in  a  dumb  rage  you 
wouldn't  see  the  equal  of  in  a  day's  travel.  Sam 
has  the  worst  disposition  in  the  family.  He's 
sullen.  The  surly  kind,  that  if  you  once  rouse 
him — look  out  for  yourself!  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
Martha,  but  you  got  a  handful  when  you  got 
Sam." 

Martha's  broad  shoulders  shrugged  in  a  way 
Dennis  felt  was  distinctly  unflattering. 

"  I  thank  you  kindly  for  your  advice,  which  I 
wish  I  could  give  it  back  to  you,  by  the  same 
token,"  she  said  serenely.  "  It  was  no  good  to 
me.  An'  you  can  have  your  conJo-lence  back 
without  me  even  takin'  a  turn  outa  it.  I  don't 
see  anythin'  the  matter  with  Sam,  exceptin'  he's 
got  a  fam'ly's  put  on'm  an'  put  on'm,  till  the  poor 
fella's  so  fairly  loaded  up  to  the  muzzle  with 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  81 

what  the  rest  of  you  won't  shoulder,  no  wonder 
he'd  go  off  with  a  bang  oncet  in  a  while." 

Dennis  rose,  flushed  and  angry.  "  I  came  to 

tell  you "  he  began,  but  Martha  calmly  talked 

him  down. 

"  Sam  an'  me's  been  married  two  weeks,  an' 
in  all  that  time  he's  never  give  me  a  cross  word 
or  a  black  look.  I'm  no  angel,  an'  don't  you  for- 
get it.  I  ain't  had  the  schoolin'  Sam  has,  nor  I 
ain't  the  head  he  has.  I'm  hasty  an'  I'm  clumsy, 
an'  anybody  thinks  my  cookin'  is  a  joke'd  better 
guess  again.  But  you'd  never  know  it  from  Sam. 
Sam  took  me  for  what  I  am,  like  I  took  him.  If 
I  got  a  handful  when  I  got  my  husband,  like  you 
tell  me  I  done,  why,  all  I  got  to  say  is — thank 
God  for  the  size  of  my  fist,  Dennis  Slawson,  for 
you  can't  get  too  much  of  a  good  thing!  The 
trouble  to-night  was  I  made  a  fool  of  myself 
tryin'  to  be  the  kind  I  ain't.  I  tried  be  tackful,  like 
Sarah.  I  tried  to  pass  bad  advice  off  on  the  poor 
fella.  Sam  ain't  used  to  tack  from  me.  He  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  When  I  have  anythin' 
to  say,  I  let'm  have  it,  straight  between  the  eyes. 
That's  my  kinda  tack.  An'  it  works,  an'  don't 
you  forget  it.  If,  the  minute  Sam'd  popped  his 
head  inside  the  door  I'd  'a'  said,  '  Looka  here, 
Sam,  Dennis  an'  Sarah  backed  down  on  Ma. 


82  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

They  had  her  two  weeks,  an'  they  soured  on  the 
job.  They're  goin'  to  heave  her  back  on  you 
who've  looked  out  for  her  ever  since  you  was  a 
kid,  God  help  you!  you  bein'  the  only  one  o'  the 
Slawson  push  ever  did  think  they'd  a  duty  to  the 
mother  bore'm' — if  I'd  'a'  aimed  that  shot  at'm 
the  minute  he  showed  his  face  in  the  door,  why, 
the  suddent  shock  would  'a'  knocked'm  silly,  an' 
while  he  was  helpless,  so  to  speak,  I  coulda  got  in 
my  fine  work  about  me  havin'  took  a  real  flat, 
which  I'm  goin'  to  pay  for  it  outa  what  I'll  earn 
goin'  out  by  the  day,  so's  we'll  have  a  corner  to 
put  Ma  in,  oncet  we  get  her.  That  woulda  give 
him  all  he  could  swalla  in  one  big  gullup,  an'  then 
I  coulda  handed'm  out  a  slice  o'  orange,  as  you'd 
say,  to  take  the  taste  outa  his  mouth.  As  it  is,  he 
thinks  I  soured  on  these  rooms,  an'  that's  a  pill 
kinda  chokes'm  to  get  it  down,  an'  I  don't  blame'm. 
I  know  what  he's  doin'  this  minute.  Walkin' 
'round  the  streets,  grievin'  his  heart  out,  because 
he  can't  give  me  a  tony  flat  like  mother's,  when  all 
I'd  ever  ask  is  just  what  we  got  right  here,  in  these 
two  rooms,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  want  of  a  place  to 
lay  Ma's  head  on." 

Dennis's  fingers  clutched  at  the  brim  of  his 
hat,  as^they  itched  to  clutch  at  Martha.  Nothing 
would  have  pleased  him  better  than  to  "  wipe  up 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  83 

the  floor  "  with  her.  His  method  with  the  sex 
was  simple  and  direct,  the  method  of  the  primor- 
dial male.  Deprived  of  his  right  to  "  chastise  " 
her  properly,  he  turned  and  stalked  out  of  the 
room. 

Martha  looked  after  him  unregretfully. 

"  The  next  time  he'll  know  better'n  run  down 
Sam  to  me,"  she  mused.  "  Dennis  thinks  all  a 
man's  got  to  do  is  shoot  out  his  jaw  at  a  woman 
an',  as  Ma  says,  '  the  fear'll  be  in  her  heart,  she 
won't  have  a  limb  to  move.'  But  I'm  not  Sarah's 
kind,  to  be  sidlin'  'round  the  men,  like  an  ash-puss, 
an'  get  my  way  with'm,  without  their  knowin'  it. 
Dennis  is  a  bully,  but  he  got  the  worst  of  it  this 
time." 

She  was  mistaken. 

The  clock  on  the  shelf  above  her  tubs  rever- 
berated to  the  force  of  nine  loud,  metallic  strokes. 
According  to  Martha's  calculations  an  hour  re- 
mained to  Sam,  before  she  would  go  out  and  fetch 
him.  Hardly  ten  minutes  of  the  allotted  space 
had  passed,  when  her  alertly  listening  ears  caught 
the  sound  of  slow  steps  mounting  the  unsteady 
staircase. 

"  That's  himself,  the  poor  fella !  "  she  rumi- 
nated. "  All  tired  out  with  his  hard  day's  work 
an'  the  heat,  an'  then  me  atop  of  it,  handin'  'm 


84  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

'  tack '  after  Sarah's  receet,  which  it  might  better 
'a'  been  a  club,  an'  done  with  it.  I'll  make  believe 
busy  myself  settin'  a  stitch  in  his  stockin's,  to  save 
his  face,  as  if  I  never  missed'm,  or  knew  he'd 
been  gone." 

So,  when  the  door  was  pushed  gently  open, 
Martha,  bending  industriously  over  her  work,  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  to  see  who  stood  on  the  threshold. 
It  was  only  at  the  sound  of  a  hesitating  cough, 
manifestly  not  Sam's,  that  she  raised  her  head  and, 
looking  up,  saw  Ma's  angular  little  figure  sil- 
houetted against  the  shadows  of  the  outer  entry. 

Martha  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 

"  By  the  great  horn  spoon!  What  brings  you 
here  this  time  o'  night,  Ma?  "  she  interrogated. 

Mrs.  Slawson  drew  the  forefinger  of  an  un- 
gloved hand  across  her  upper  lip. 

"  'Twas  Dennis  an'  Sarah  brought  me  down,'r 
she  whimpered.  "  After  youse  was  gone  this 
afternoon,  himself  decided  they  wouldn't  wait  for 
to  bring  me  next  week  when  they  go  visit  Sarah's 
cousin  in  Jersey,  but  they'd  be  off  to-morra,  an' 
take  no  chances  o'  their  plans  bein'  upset.  Sa 
Sarah  packed  my  things,  an'  her  an'  Dennis 
brought  me  down  here  as  soon  as  we'd  our  supper 
et — sooner,  by  the  same  token,  for  I  hadn't  me 
fill,  nor  anyways  near,  when  they  hurried  me  off. 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  85 

An'  the  childern  left  do  up  the  dishes,  at  that! 

Sarah  says  to  himself  as  we  fared  along 

'  It's  you  better  go  up  first  to  Sam  an'  Mar- 
tha's, Dennis.  An'  leave  me  an'  Ma  wait  for  you 
in  the  hallway  below,  till  we'd  see  what  the  two 
o'  them'd  say  to  you,  the  way  Ma'd  be  visitin'  'm 
so  much  earlier  than  Martha  expected.' 

"  So  up  come  Dennis.  An'  himself  an'  you  was 
forever  colloguin',  till  the  knees  o'  me  felt  like 
bread  itself,  that  they'd  crumble  beneath  me. 
Sarah  says:  'Sit  ye  down  on  the  stairs,  an'  rest 
your  bones,'  says  she.  An'  well  it  was  for  me 
I  done  her  biddin',  for  never  a  step  did  Dennis 
come  down  till  the  feet  o'  me  woulda  dropped  off 
wit'  the  weariness,  an'  me  standin'.  An'  when  he 
did  come  he  was  mad  as  mad!  Whatever  did 
you  say  to  him,  Martha,  to  raise  the  wrath  of'm 
like  he'd  look  ready  to  slay  you?  Says  he  to 
Sarah: 

'  Come  along  home,  an'  be  quick  about  it. 
Lemme  outa  this !  To-morra,  the  first  thing,  we'll 
be  off  to  Jersey.'  An'  then  he  bid  me  make  me 
way  upstairs  alone,  for  that  saysee :  '  My  foot 
shall  never  darken  Martha  Slawson's  door 
again,'  he  says,  '  till  she's  went  down  on  her 
two  knees,  an'  begged  my  forgiveness,  for  the  way 
she's  turned  her  tongue  on  me  this  night.'  ' 


86  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Martha  laughed. 

"  I  hope  he  won't  hold  his  breath  waitin'  till 
I  do,"  she  observed  with  composure.  "  If  he'd 
said  one  knee,  I  mighta  considered  it.  But  my 
two  knees!  There's  only  a  couple  o'  things  I 
ever  go  down  on  my  two  knees  for,  an' — neither 
of  them's  Dennis.  But  that  don't  help  me  out 
o'  the  nice  little  hole  he's  put  me  in.  Where 
I'm  goin'  to  stow  you  to  sleep,  when  all  Sam  an' 
me's  got  is  the  one  bed  between  us,  an'  not  an 
inch  o'  room  to  spread  another  if  we  had  it,  is 
a  question.  I  wonder,  now,  could  I  make  out  to 
rig  up  somethin'  on  the  ironin'-table,  which  when 
I  turn  the  top  back  it's  a  kinda  sofa.  Though, 
bein'  plain  wood,  not  so  soft  as  some.  We 
wouldn't  any  of  us  be  needin'  much  coverin'  a 
hot  night  like  this.  If  I  put  all  the  blankets  an' 
things  belongs  to  our  bed  on  the  ironin'-table,  I 
wonder  could  you  make  out  to  sleep  any  on  it." 

"I  could  not!"  announced  Ma  stoutly,  with- 
out hesitation.  "  I'm  lost  wit'out  me  night's  rest, 
the  same  as  me  cuppertee  evenin's,  before  I  go  to 
bed.  Now,  if  you'll  just  wet  me  a  good  heapin' 
teaspoon,  till  I  comfort  meself  wit'  a  mouthful, 
I'll  settle  down  in  the  bed  inside,  and  not  a  sound 
will  ye  hear  outa  me  till  mornin'." 

Martha  pondered. 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  87 

u  But  Sam  " — she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to 
Ma.  "  What's  to  become  of  Sam?  " 

Ma's  resource  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  Leave'm  spread  a  shawl  or  somethin'  atop 
o'  the  tubs,  an'  once  he's  stretched  his  limbs 
there,  it's  not  another  thing  he'll  know  till  the 
dawn." 

When  Sam,  returning,  thrust  open  his  own  door, 
shortly  after  ten,  the  first  thing  that  met  his  gaze 
was  a  shakedown  bed  made  up  on  the  tubs.  His 
wife  was  invisible.  It  needed  no  more  to  arouse 
his  sensitive  fears.  That  Martha  had  gone  into 
their  room  closing  the  door  against  him  seemed 
obvious.  For  a  moment  he  stood  facing  the  bar- 
rier between  them,  a  sort  of  creeping  horror  mak- 
ing his  flesh  sick,  a  helpless  trembling  in  all  his 
joints.  Then,  suddenly,  the  nightmare  passed, 
for  Martha  stood  in  the  doorway,  her  face  the 
face  of  the  woman  who  loved  him.  The  quick 
revulsion  of  feeling,  following  after  what  had 
gone  before,  brought  him  down  as  if  with  the 
force  of  a  blow.  He  dropped  upon  the  nearest 
chair,  his  head  bowed  on  its  back.  Martha  laid 
a  large,  calming  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Say,  Sam,  brace  up!  Ma's  back!  Dennis 
an'  Sarah  told  me  this  afternoon  you'd  got  to  take 
her  again,  but  they  didn't  say  they'd  bring  her 


88  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

down  to-night.  That  bright  idea  struck'm  later, 
an'  that's  what  they  done.  She's  in  our  room, 
in  our  bed  this  minute,  composin'  herself  to  sleep, 
beggin'  not  to  be  disturbed." 

Sam's  face  was  tragic. 

"  That  makes  me  a  liar  to  you,  Martha,"  he 
brought  out  at  last,  breathing  hard  on  the  effort. 
"  I  promised  you,  of  my  own  accord,  Ma  shouldn't 
live  with  us.  I  promised  you  that  when  you  said 
you'd  marry  me." 

"  Sh !  Don't  speak  so  loud !  Certaintly  you 
did,"  returned  Martha.  "  But  promises  don't 
hold  when  you're  up  against  circumstances  over 
which  you  have  no  control,  like  Dennis  an'  Sarah. 
You  meant  all  right,  Sam.  It's  the  others — the 
whole  bunch  o'  them — that's  to  blame.  God 
knows  you've  took  care  o'  Ma  your  share,  ever 
since  you  was  a  little  shaver.  They  shirked  the 
job,  like  they're  shirkin'  it  now.  But  that's  no 
reason  for  us  worryin'.  Our  conscience  is  clear, 
so  sit  up  an'  have  some  style  about  you,  an' 
I'll  tell  you  some  more.  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  done  after  they  told  me  about  Ma,  an' 
this  time  I'll  tell  you  straight — an'  no  beatin* 
about  the  bush,  or  tryin'  to  skate  about  grace- 
ful, like  I  done  at  supper,  an'  fell  down  an' 
got  a  bump  I  wpn't  forget  in  a  hurry.  When 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  89 

Dennis  an'  Sarah  told  me  we  got  to  have  Ma, 
I  knew  it  was  no  good  tryin'  to  tuck  her  away 
here.  We  couldn't  do  it.  Not  Ma?  So  I  just 
walked  my  little  self  over  to  a  Real  Estate  place, 
an'  got  the  fella  show  me  some  three-room  flats 
that  it  wouldn't  break  my  back  to  shoulder  the 
rent.  An'  I  took  the  best  o'  the  pick,  an'  paid  down 
my  little  deposit,  an'  then,  bein'  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, as  you  might  say,  I  strolled  into  Mrs.  Gran- 
ville's  cousin's  who's  so  poor  she's  got  to  live  in  a 
apartment-house  with  three  grand  Ethiopians  in 
the  hall,  pullin'  the  elevator,  an'  stickin'  little  stop- 
pers on  a  rubber  toob,  in  somethin'  telefoams  up- 
stairs somebody's  in  the  hall,  an'  will  she  see'm? 
She's  got  me  hired  for  days'  work  twice  a  week, 
to  help  out  with  the  rough  cleanin'  the  delicate 
young  lady  she's  got  for  a  maid  ain't  a  taste  for. 
An'  Mrs.  Ronald  wants  me  go  there  too.  So,  be 
this  an'  be  that,  my  time'll  be  about  all  engaged. 
There'll  be  no  worry  about  the  rent.  Now  what 
do  you  think  o'  that!  " 

Sam  shook  his  head  dumbly. 

It  was  not  altogether  the  unaccommodating  na- 
ture of  tubs  to  masquerade  as  downy  beds  of  ease 
that  caused  "  himself  "  to  lie  awake  and  staring 
all  through  the  night.  Nor  yet  the  vision  of 
Martha  painfully  huddled  against  the  resisting 


90  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

corner  of  the  ironing-table  Ma  had  scorned.  Sam 
Slawson  was  an  honest  man.  His  conscience  told 
him  he  had  acted  the  part  of  a  cheat  to  Martha,  in 
marrying  her  to  the  dingy  fate  which  was  all  his 
somber  vision  could  see  stretching  before  them, 
as  his  contribution  to  their  common  future.  It 
was  not  for  nothing  he  had  come  home  that  night 
nervously  on  edge,  open  to  the  first  suggestion  of 
disaster.  He  had  learned,  on  good  authority,  that 
it  was  only  a  matter  of  a  couple  of  months  before 
he  would  lose  his  job. 

"  I'm  telling  you  as  a  friend,"  Peter  Gilroy 
had  confided,  with  officious  zeal.  "  You  better 
be  looking;  out  for  another  place.  I  happen  to 
know  Mr.  Granville  is  only  waiting  to  come  back 
from  his  trip  abroad  to  make  a  lot  of  changes  in 
the  office.  You're  down  as  one  of  them.  I 
thought  I  better  give  it  to  you  straight,  us  being 
friends,  than  let  it  come  on  you  unexpected,  when 
you  wouldn't  be  prepared." 

Sam  had  thanked  him  in  his  characteristic 
monosyllabic  fashion,  and  gone  about  his  business 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  a  sort  of  dumb  nightmare 
of  despair.  He  justified  his  determination  to  with- 
hold the  news  from  Martha  by  quoting  to  himself 
her  familiar  words,  "  What  you  don't  know  won't 
worry  you." 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  91 

;'  When  I  get  a  new  job  will  be  time  enough 
to  tell  her  I've  lost  my  old  one." 

And  then,  on  the  top  of  this,  had  come  the 
misunderstanding  about  the  rooms,  Ma's  advent, 
the  news  that  Martha  had  taken  a  three-roomed 
flat,  and  was  going  out  "  by  the  day  "  to  pay  for 
it.  He  could  not  tell  her,  in  the  face  of  all  this. 
He  would  tell  her  when  the  moving  was  over,  and 
they  were  settled.  But  they  moved  and  were  set- 
tled and  still  the  confession  did  not  come. 

Martha  watched  him  silently  through  all  the 
varying  phases  of  his  close-mouthed  misery,  when 
she  would  have  given  the  world  to  comfort  him 
with  a  word. 

'  The  poor  fella !  "  she  confided  to  her  mother 
at  last.  '  You'd  be  sorry  for'm,  to  see  the  secret 
way  he  takes  on.  But  if  a  body  tried  to  help'm, 
his  feelin's'd  be  everlastin'ly  hurt,  so  the  cure'd 
be  worse  than  the  disease.  If  you  happen  to  hear 
of  anybody  wantin'  a  good,  decent  chap  ain't 
smart  enough  to  get  money  he  ain't  worked  for, 
why,  think  o'  Sam,  will  you?  " 

A  fortnight  or  so  after  this  gentle  hint  had 
been  dropped  into  Mrs.  Ryan's  ear,  her  husband 
called  Sam  up  on  the  telephone. 

"  Say,  how'd  you  like  to  try  your  hand  bossing 
a  gang  of  my  men?  " 


92  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Sam,  instantly  suspicious,  did  not  answer  at 
once.  Then,  "  How  did  you  know  I  was  looking 
for  a  place?"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't.  Are  you?  This  job's  open.  I 
just  naturally  thought  of  you,  you  being  Martha's 
husband  and  me  liking  her  so  much.  If  you  want 
the  job,  it's  yours." 

"  I  do,"  said  Sam. 

That  night  he  confessed  to  Martha. 

"  It  would  have  been  hard  on  you  any  time,  to 
have  me  out  of  place,"  he  explained,  with  the 
elation  of  one  referring  to  a  danger  happily  es- 
caped. "  But  now,  being  as  you  are,  it  would  be 
cruel  hard.  What  luck  though,  Ryan's  just  hap- 
pening to  hit  on  me  for  that  job!  What  luck! 
Ain't  you  glad  things  have  turned  out  as  they 
have?  And,  now  it's  over,  you  don't  mind  my 
having  kept  the  worry  from  you,  do  you?  " 

"  Certaintly  not!"  Martha  assured  him. 
"  Don't  you  ever  tell  me  anythin'  you  don't  wanta. 
If  it's  any  comfort  to  you  to  think  I  don't  know, 
for  goodness'  sake  take  it." 

Sam  cogitated.  "  If  I  didn't  want  a  boy  so 
bad,  I'd  hope  the  baby'd  be  a  girl,  Martha,  so  it'd 
be  like  you." 

Martha  bowed  ceremoniously  to  the  tribute, 
but  before  she  could  respond  in  words  Ma,  who 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  93 

had  made  one  of  her  mysterious,  soundless  en- 
trances into  the  room  when  neither  of  them  was 
aware,  spoke  in  her  stead. 

"  The  Slawsons  never  did  begin  wit'  a  girl. 
They  always  begun  wit'  a  boy,  accordin'  to  Scrip- 
ture. But  you  may  look  for  a  girl,  Sammy,  an' 
that's  what  you  may  look  for.  I'd  never  expect 
annythin'  else,  the  way  Martha  is  contrairy,  an' 
does  the  things  like  she  wants  to  herself,  an'  nary 
a  thought  o'  what  annywan  else  is  wantin'  at  all." 

Martha  laughed.  "  Poor  Ma  !  You  certaintly 
got  a  dose  when  you  got  me  for  a  daughter-in- 
law.  I'm  sorry  I  don't  suit  you  better.  We  all 
have  our  trials  in  this  world,  an'  I'm  yours." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  complainin',"  averred  the  old 
woman  meekly.  "  But  in  my  da'  'twas  the  wife 
did  the  husban's  biddin'  an'  not  himself  hers, 
like  the  two  of  youse  here." 

Again  Martha  laughed. 

;<  We  can't  all  of  us  be  playin'  '  Oats,  peas, 
beans,' '  she  said.  u  While  some  parties  is 
singin',  '  Now  you're  married,  you  must  obey,' 
others  is  playin'  '  Clap  in,  clap  out,'  or  '  Coin'  to 
Reno— I  should  say  Jerusalem.' ' 

Ma  shook  her  head  despondently  over  the  cup 
of  tea  Martha  set  before  her. 

"  In  my  time  the  home  a  man  could  give  his 


94  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

woman  was  good  enough  for  her.  But  look  at 
yourself,  goin'  out  by  the  da',  for  to  pay  for  this. 
The  way  you  must  live  in  a  gra-and  flat,  wit'  three 
rooms  into  it,  when  the  old  one  was  respectable 
enough  for  annybody,  an'  fine  an'  cozy  as  you'd 
need.  I  never  slep'  more  comfortable  in  me  life 
than  the  night  I  spent  in  it.  But  there's  no  satis- 
faction at  all  wit'  the  wives  these  days.  They're 
always  strivin'  for  somethin'  better." 

"  That's  the  way  they  get  it,"  said  Martha. 

"  The  girls  want  to  begin  where  the  parents  left 
off." 

"  Then  it's  up  to  the  parents  not  to  leave  off." 

"  It's  only  of  themselves  the  girls  do  be  think- 
in'.  Not  of  their  husbands  at  all.  A  wife  should 
think  of  himself  before  annywan  else." 

'  The  ones  that  do  learn  him  to  do  the  same." 

Ma  braced  her  spine  for  a  supreme  summing  up. 

"  Shame  on  ye,  Martha  Carrol,  that  don't  know 
your  duty  to  a  good,  steady  man." 

Sam  laid  his  hand  on  Martha's  shoulder.  "  I've 
no  fault  to  find  with  my  wife,  Ma.  And,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  you've  none  either.  She's  all  right, 
Martha  is!  " 

Shufflingly  Ma  got  to  her  feet.  Poising  her  tea- 
cup carefully,  she  took  herself  off,  the  picture 
of  virtue  undervalued. 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  95 

u  I  couldn't  blame  you  if  you  felt  disappointed, 
Martha,"  Sam  said,  when  she  was  gone.  "  You're 
not  getting  what  you  expected.  I  couldn't  blame 
you  if  you  didn't  like  my  mother." 

"  What's  yours  is  mine,"  said  Martha.  "  We 
got  to  like  our  own." 

Sam  gave  her  a  look. 

His  new  job  seemed  at  first  to  be  the  very 
thing  for  Sam.  The  particular  niche  into  which 
his  personality  and  capabilities  fitted  to  a  T. 
He  controlled  his  men  with  quiet  authority, 
and  got  more  work  out  of  them  than  any 
other  boss  Ryan  had  ever  hired  with  twice  his 
bluster. 

'Twas  a  good  day's  work  when  I  took  him 
on,"  the  contractor  told  his  wife,  and  she,  nat- 
urally being  pleased,  told  it  again  to  Martha,  who 
was  more  pleased  still  and  told  it  yet  again  to 
Sam,  in  whose  ears  praise  rang  sweet  and  who, 
forthwith,  spurred  his  spirit  to  greater  effort. 
The  open  air  and  exercise  agreed  with  him.  All 
through  the  Autumn  and  early  Winter  he  flour- 
ished famously.  Then  came  a  spell  of  penetrating 
cold  and  damp,  which  unaccustomed  Sam  did  not 
know  how  to  protect  himself  against.  He  had 
a  sharp  attack  of  grip,  fought  through  it  dog- 


96  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

gedly,  and  was  back  *'  on  the  job  "  before  he  was 
fit. 

In  January,  his  cold  still  hanging  on,  Martha 
insisted  he  should  see  a  doctor.  The  doctor's 
advice  was  brief  but  decided.  "  Give  up  your 
job.  You  can't  stand  the  exposure." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  exclaimed 
Martha  when  Sam  repeated  the  fateful  words  to 
her.  "  Who'd  ever  'a'  thought  you  were  that 
delicate,  to  look  at  you !  But  don't  you  get  down- 
hearted. If  we  can't  do  one  way,  we'll  do  an- 
other. I've  all  the  work  I  can  get  away  with,  so 
we  won't  starve,  nor  yet  go  bare,  an'  while  that's 
the  case  I  call  us  well  off." 

Winter  passed,  Spring  came.  Martha  was  still 
at  the  helm. 

"  In  my  da',"  observed  Ma,  "  it  wouldn't  'a' 
been  thought  well  of  for  a  body  to  be  flyin'  in 
the  face  o'  Providence,  the  same  as  you're  doin' 
this  minute,  when  it's  safe  at  home  you'd  oughta 
be,  an'  home  you'd  oughta  stay,  instead  o'  goin' 
out  to  days'  work,  an'  maybe  injurin'  the  boy  ere 
ever  he's  born." 

It  was  the  last  of  May.  The  morning  was  hot. 
Martha  had  evidently  got  out  the  wrong  side  of 
the  bed,  for  the  sound  of  Ma's  insistent  sing-song, 
the  sight  of  her  pious  mouth,  set  her  all  on  edge. 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  97 

"  O,  dry  up !  "  she  exploded  crossly. 

Ma  stared  open-mouthed,  too  amazed  to  re- 
tort. Sam's  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  his  wife's 
face  in  a  quiet,  steady  gaze.  Martha  tried  to 
shrug  herself  free  from  the  burden  of  it,  and 
when  she  could  not,  turned  upon  him. 

"  I  know  what's  in  your  mind  about  me,  for 
talkin'  up  so  to  Ma.  But  I  don't  care.  I'm  tired 
an'  sick  bein'  found  fault  with.  I've  swallowed 
all  I'm  goin'  to  stand.  I  give  you  notice,  both 
of  you.  If  you  don't  like  me  an'  my  ways,  you 
can  go  where  you'll  find  another  you  like  better." 

Ma  rose  to  pass  stiffly  from  the  room.  Her 
reproachful  sniff,  her  look  of  taking  up  her  mar- 
tyr's cross  and  carrying  it  with  Christian  forti- 
tude, were  not  lost  on  Martha.  But  it  was  the 
expression  of  boyish  bewilderment  in  Sam's  eyes 
that  hurt  her  so  she  struck  out  fiercely,  with  a 
sort  of  quick,  muscular  recoil  from  the  pain  it 
inflicted. 

"  That's  right!  Stare  at  me!  I  don't  care!  I 
mean  what  I  say!  I'm  tired  an'  sick  workin'  like 
a  dog,  only  to  be  nagged  an'  hounded  till  I'm  clean 
crazy.  ...  I  wish  you'd  take  your  mother  an' 
the  both  of  you  clear  out  an'  leave  me  be.  I'm 
sick  o'  the  whole  Slawson  family." 

She  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  taken  up  her  straw 


98  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

hat  and  was  putting  it  on,  before  Sam  found 
words. 

"  You're  surely  not  going  out  to-day,  Martha." 

"Why  ain't  I?" 

"  You're  not  fit." 

"  I'm  goin'  all  the  same." 

Sam  made  no  effort  to  oppose  her.  Perhaps 
he  did  not  believe  she  actually  meant  what  she 
said.  But  when,  some  moments  later,  he  made 
his  way  downstairs,  intending  to  follow  and  bring 
her  back,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

It  was  somewhat  after  Martha's  usual  hour  for 
coming  home  from  work,  and  Sam  was  beginning 
to  grow  anxious  in  good  earnest,  when  he  heard 
the  stairs  creak  under  ascending  feet,  and  went 
to  the  hall-door  to  receive  and  welcome  his  wife. 

A  boy  in  uniform  stood  in  the  entry. 

"Telegram!" 

Sam  read  the  brief  message,  tossed  it  on  the 
table  for  Ma,  and  without  a  word,  without  his 
hat,  without  his  dinner,  plunged  downstairs  and 
into  the  street. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  standing,  weak 
and  shaken,  very  misty  about  the  eyes,  beside 
Martha's  screen-encircled  cot  in  a  hospital  lying-in 
ward. 


HER  HUSBAND'S  FAMILY  99 

Her  face  seemed  strange  to  him  in  its  un- 
accustomed pallor,  the  dark  hair  curling  in  damp 
tendrils  above  the  temples.  One  finely-formed, 
work-hardened  hand  lay  upon  the  turned-back 
sheet,  white  against  the  white  of  the  linen. 

After  a  moment  Martha  unclosed  her  eyes, 
looked  up,  tried  to  smile. 

"  Are  you  mad  at  me,  Sam?  " 

Dumbly  he  shook  his  head. 

"  It's  no  cinch,"  she  whispered,  with  more  of 
an  effort  than  she  would  ordinarily  have  used  to 
scrub  a  floor.  "  But  we  won  out,  the  both  of 
us — the  kid  an'  me.  Only  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  .  .  . 
you  ain't  gettin'  what  you  expected.  .  .  .  It's  like 
Ma  said.  ...  I  got  my  own  way.  ...  I  couldn't 
blame  you  if  you  felt  disappointed.  It  ain't  .  .  . 
your  boy.  I  couldn't  blame  you  if  you  didn't  like 
.  .  .  my  .  .  .  girl." 

Sam  bent  to  touch  the  damp  forehead  with  his 
lips. 

"  What's  yours  is  mine.  We  got  to  like  our 
own,"  he  quoted  with  tender  raillery. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE 

WHEN  Mr.  Frank  Ronald  made  Sam  Slaw- 
son  superintendent  of  his  country  estate, 
and  the  family  went  to  New  Hampshire  to  live, 
Martha  said  to  her  husband: 

"  One  thing  I  do  feel  kinda  sorry  about  is 
young  Sam's  having  to  give  up  singin'  in  the 
surplus  choir.  First  place,  it  stood'm  a  good 
fifty  cents  a  week,  outside  o'  funer'ls  an'  feast- 
days.  An'  then,  it  done'm  a  lotta  good.  Sammy 
ain't  a  bad  young  fella,  as  young  fellas  goes,  but 
no  boy  his  age — fourteen  in  his  stockin'  feet — is 
naturally  the  sorta  white-robed,  angel-kinda- 
lookin'  objeck  walks  up  the  church  aisle  Sunday 
mornin's,  chantin'  to  beat  the  band,  with  a  face 
on'm  like  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth. 
There's  a  lotta  talk  about  childhood  bein'  holy. 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  I  find  the  holiness  hasta 
strike  in,  in  youngsters.  It  certaintly  don't  strike 
out.  Now,  I  always  felt  if  Sammy  could  only 
sport  them  angel-togs,  an'  that  angel-look  long 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  101 

enough  they'd  be  bound  to  get  in  their  fine  work, 
in  the  end. 

Sam's  eyebrows  went  up  in  a  look  of  mild  in- 
quiry when  Martha  paused.  She  wrestled  with 
a  needleful  of  cranky  thread  until  it  yielded,  then 
took  off  her  thimble  and  blew  into  it  vigorously 
before  putting  it  on  again. 

'  You  mean  you'd  like  young  Sam  to  grow  up 
an  angel-child?  The  sort  of  picture-book  boy 
caroling  hallelujahs,  he  looks  in  the  chancel  every 
Sunday?  "  her  husband  put  to  her,  with  a  touch 
of  the  scorn  men  invariably  show  for  what  they 
conceive  to  be  womankind's  ideal  of  masculinity. 

Martha  negatived  his  question  with  an  em- 
phatic headshake. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  no  such  thing.  Sammy 
couldn't  be  an  angel-child,  if  he  tried  with  both 
feet,  seein'  you  an'  me's  his  fathers  an'  mothers. 
He's  got  all  that's  comin'  to'm  in  the  way  o' 
cussedness.  He's  a  boy  every  day  in  the  week, 
believe  me.  That's  why  I'm  kinda  sorry  he's  had 
to  quit  on  the  church-choir  job,  Sundays.  That 
white  '  rubdynwee  '  (as  Mrs.  Sherman  calls  it)  an' 
the  lookin'-inta-heaven,  goo-goo  eyes  goes  with  it, 
woulda  worked  back  into'm,  if  he  could  only  'a' 
stuck  to'm  long  enough.  Don't  you  worry  about 
young  Sam  growin'  too  good.  A  pinch  o'  angel 


102  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

along  with  your  son's  natural  share  o'  the  other 
party  wouldn't  harm  him  a  mite." 

Sam  senior  smiled  his  characteristic  slow  smile. 

"  Young  Sam'll  come  out  all  right,"  he  assured 
Martha  comfortingly.  "  You'll  see,  he'll  come 
out  all  right." 

"  You  bet,  I'll  see  he  comes  out  all  right," 
was  the  quiet  rejoinder. 

Young  Sam  was,  at  the  moment,  pleasantly  en- 
gaged in  hectoring  his  sister. 

"  Girls  are  no  good!  I  wouldn't  be  a  girl  for 
anything  you  could  gimme.  Look  at  the  way  a 
man  can  earn  money.  Girls  can't  earn  money  like 
men  can." 

u  When  I'm  out  of  school,  like  Cora  is,  I'm 
going  to  earn  money,"  Francie  stated  simply. 

"How  you  going  to  do  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I'm  going  to  earn  a  lot 
and  a  lot." 

"  What'd  you  do  with  it  if  you  had  it?  "  Mar- 
tha asked,  interested  at  once,  for  Francie,  the  least 
self-assertive  of  all  the  children,  made  few  claims 
and,  so  far  as  her  mother  knew,  had  no  vaulting 
ambitions. 

"  I'd  buy  presents  for  everybody,  that's  what 
I'd  do.  I  mean,  the  kind  of  things  they'd  really 
like,  not  just  something  I'd  conjured  up  myself  out 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  103 

of  odds  and  ends,  that  they'd  have  to  say  thank 
you  for,  because  I  made  them." 

Martha  smiled. 

"  You're  a  keen  one,"  she  inwardly  commented, 
pretending  to  busy  herself  elsewhere,  that  her 
grown-up  presence  might  not  check  any  self- 
revelation  on  the  "  young-un's  "  part.  "  You're 
a  keen  one,  for  all  you're  so  quiet." 

"  What'd  you  get  me,  if  you  had  the  price," 
young  Sam  put  the  question  with  shameless 
egotism. 

"  What'd  you  want?" 

"  Oh,  several  things.  A  hocky-stick,  for  one, 
and  a  rifle  for  another.  Or  a  full-rigged  jack- 
knife.  There's  lots  of  ways  you  could  please  a 
man,  if  you  insist  on  blowing  in  your  good  cash  on 
your  only  brother." 

Francie  mused. 

"  I'd  get  Cora  a  near-silk  slip,  the  kind  she 
wants  for  her  new  white  dress.  And  I'd  get 
Sabina  a  pencil-box,  with  A.  W.  Faber's  pencils 
in  it,  and  a  rubber  and  a  pen  and  a  pen-knife  for 
school.  And,  O,  I'd  get  father  some  slippers  to 
wear  evenings  when  he  comes  in  tired.  And  I'd 
get  Ma  a  new  shoulder-throw,  and —  '  her  voice 
dropped  to  a  whisper  that  would  have  been  in- 
audible to  any  but  the  practised  ear  of  Martha — 


104  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  I'd  get  mother  a  shirtwaist,  ready-made,  out 
of  the  store,  with  embroidery  on  it,  and,  maybe, 
some  lace  'round  the  neck  and  sleeves." 

Young  Sam  widened  his  already  ample  mouth 
with  fore  and  middle  fingers  outstretched.  He 
let  forth  a  long,  derisive  whistle. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  that?  "  Francie 
queried  crestfallen,  waking  from  her  dream  of 
rapture  to  the  realization  that,  somehow,  she  had 
made  herself  ridiculous. 

"  Nothing's  the  matter  with  it,  only  where  do 
you  come  in  on  the  game?  If  you  spread  your- 
self on  the  rest  of  the  folks,  what'd  you  have?  " 

Francie  stared. 

"  Why,  I'd  have  the  fun  of  giving  the  things." 

Sam  junior  thrust  his  hands  in  his  trousers  side- 
pockets  and  tilted  aggravatingly  back  and  forth 
on  heels  and  toes. 

"Little  Goody  Two-Shoes!  Ain't  you  pious? 
Just  like  one  of  those  mother's  darlings  you  read 
about  that  die  young  and's  buried  with  a  marble 
headstone  to  her  feet !  "  he  taunted  mercilessly, 
adding  a  string  of  jargon  he  knew  was  her  special 
dread  and  abhorrence:  "Ping-tung!  Whoop-da! 
A'-there-to-pup ! " 

Tears  rose  to  Francie's  eyes.  "  I  think  you're 
real  mean,"  she  retorted  weakly. 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  105 

"  Well,  all  I  got  to  say  is,  when  the  time 
comes,  don't  you  spring  any  of  your  home-made 
neckties  on  me,  out  of  your  old  cast-off  rag-bag 
pickings.  I've  told  you  what  I  want.  Now  it's 
up  to  you.  Get  busy!  " 

"  Doncher  fash  yourself  over  your  brother's 
nonsense,"  Martha  advised,  emerging  from  the 
pantry  just  as  young  Sam  disappeared  through 
the  kitchen  doorway.  "  He  don't  mean  no  harm. 
It's  just  the  nature  o'  boys  to  tease.  Boys's  like 
nutmeg  graters.  You'd  bark  your  fingers  han- 
dlin'm,  if  you  don't  look  out.  But  they  got  a 
good  little  kernel  hid  away  inside'm  under  cover 
somewheres,  if  you've  the  wit  to  find  it." 

The  good  little  kernel  in  her  own  particular 
boy  it  troubled  Martha  more  and  more  to  find 
during  the  weeks  that  followed. 

The  fact  that  he  came  from  the  city  gave  him 
a  sense  of  supremacy  over  the  other  "  fellows  " 
in  the  neighborhood — the  "  natives  "  with  whom 
he  associated.  His  step  developed  a  swagger,  his 
chin  an  audacious  tilt. 

He  was  alert  to  fetch  and  carry  for  Mr.  Frank 
Ronald,  but  whew  any  lesser  authority  com- 
manded him  his  grubby  forefinger  went  up  to 
expose  his  eyeball,  impudently  indicating  there 
was  no  green  there. 


io6  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Sam  senior  talked  gravely  of  thrashings  which 
Sam  junior  knew  would  never  materialize. 

Martha  dropped  warning  hints  that  if  there 
wasn't  a  change  for  the  better  she'd  "  take  mat- 
ters into  her  own  hands  and  give  someone  a  lickin' 
he'd  remember  to  the  longest  day  he  lived." 

"  You  better  touch  me  once !  Who  cares  for  a 
woman,  anyhow?"  the  object  of  her  maternal 
solicitude  muttered  beneath  his  breath. 

Martha  stopped  short  in  her  work. 

"What  say?"  she  demanded  impellingly. 

Sammy  looked  up  and  met  her  eyes. 

"  I  said,  yes'm,"  he  answered  with  meekness. 

Martha  did  not  remove  her  gaze  until  she  had 
measured  him  from  head  to  heel. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it!"  she  observed  affably. 
"  I  wouldn't  like  any  misunderstandin'  to  come 
up  between  us,  like  come  up  between  certain  par- 
ties I  know  ...  a  boy  and  his  mother  which 
shall  be  nameless.  The  boy  he  up  an'  started  in 
to  give  his  mother  back-talk  an'  ...  well,  I 
won't  tell  you  what  happened.  It  might  spoil  your 
appetite  for  your  dinner.  But  this  much  I  will 
say — you  can  take  it  from  me,  what  that  poor 
young  fella  got  for  his  impidence  would  surprise 
you." 

Sammy's  exit  from  the  room  was  accomplished 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  107 

with  what  grace  he  could  muster,  but  though  the 
outer  man  seemed  calm,  the  inner  was  insurgent. 
No  self-respecting  male  could  be  expected  to  stand 
up  under  such  treatment  as  he  received  from  his 
family.  Every  hand  was  turned  against  him.  He 
retired  to  his  favorite  haunt,  a  hidden  corner 
in  the  barn-loft,  to  chew  the  bitter  cud  of  con- 
scious misprizal  in  solitude. 

Meanwhile  "  the  big  house  "  was  the  scene  of 
sudden  and  mysterious  happenings. 

If  young  Sam  had  been  at  home  he  would  have 
had  no  more  than  a  vague  sense  of  unusual 
"  goings-on."  What  was  he  that  he  should  be 
taken  into  anyone's  confidence? 

His  mother  could  have  told  him  (only  of  course 
she  wouldn't)  that  the  Ronald  family  skeleton 
had  not  only  emerged  from  its  closet,  but  had 
stretched  its  weary  bones  and  found  rest  at  last. 

Young  Sam  had  often  wondered  where  Rad- 
cliffe  Sherman's  father  was.  Once  he  had  asked 
Martha. 

'  There  never  was  a  father  in  that  family," 
she  had  returned  briefly. 

Gay  Mrs.  Sherman,  a  leader  in  fashionable 
New  York  society,  carried  off  the  situation  with 
a  confidence  that  insured  her  against  question. 

But  now  the  mystery  was  cleared.     A  broken- 


io8  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

down,  miserable  man,  old  before  his  time,  had 
appeared  at  the  Inn.  He  "  answered  to  the  name 
of  Allan,"  as  Martha  put  it,  but  there  his  self- 
identification  ended.  It  was  only  after  his  sudden 
death — of  heart-disease — that  he  was  discovered 
to  be  Mrs.  Sherman's  husband  .  .  .  Mr.  Frank 
Ronald's  brother-in-law. 

Quick  on  the  heels  of  this  event  followed  Mrs. 
Sherman's  departure,  bag  and  baggage,  mother 
and  maid  accompanying  her,  for  abroad,  and  Miss 
Claire  Lang's  coming  over  to  the  Lodge  to 
stay  .  .  .  turning  Sammy  out  of  his  room  and 
bed,  it  may  incidentally  be  mentioned.  Not  that 
Sammy  would  have  minded  being  turned  out  for 
Miss  Claire.  He  adored  her,  had  been  consumed 
with  burning  jealousy  when  she  went  to  stay  at 
Radcliffe  Sherman's  ("to  learn  him  to  grow  up 
a  big  an'  han'some  gen'lman  like  his  uncle  Frank," 
Martha  had  explained)  and  entertained  a  secret 
plan  of  marrying  her  when  he  grew  up  to  be  a 
man  and  had  earned  so  much  money  he  wouldn't 
know  what  to  do  with  it,  like  Mr.  Frank  Ronald 
himself. 

The  link  between  these  events  and  young  Sam 
was  not  so  slight  as  may  appear.  When  the  boy 
returned  to  the  house  after  his  all-day  absence 
Francie  said: 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  109 

"  Mother's  been  looking  for  you.  So've  we  all. 
All  over  the  place  ever  since  morning." 

If  Sammy  wondered  why,  he  forbore  to  ask. 
Dignity  must  be  maintained  even  at  the  cost  of 
curiosity.  Besides,  he  knew  Francie  would  tell. 
Francie  was  a  "  blab." 

"  Mr.  Ronald  feels  awful  bad  about  Mr.  Sher- 
man being  dead,"  she  presently  vouchsafed,  "  and 
mother  said  if  he'd  like  you  to,  you'd  sing  at  his 
funeral." 

"  How'd  she  know  I  would?  " 

Francie  stared.    "  Why,  of  course  you  would." 

"  Of  course  I  wouldn't." 

"  Not  if  Mr.  Ronald  ast  you?  " 

"  Not  if  the  mayor  and  the  governor  and  the 
President  ast  me.  I'm  through  doing  things  for 
folks  that  don't  know  a  good  thing  when  they 
see  it.  I'm  done  with  the  whole  of  you  .  .  .  the 
whole  darn  push!  " 

His  mother,  from  the  doorway,  regarded  him 
calmly. 

"  Go  up  an'  dress  you !  "  she  dropped  with  easy 
unconcern.  "  Francie,  you  stop  downstairs  till 
your  brother  goes  up  an'  dresses  him.  That 
funer'l's  at  four  o'clock  to-morra.  He  ain't  no 
more  time'n  he  needs  to  practise  over  his  hymns 
with  Miss  Claire." 


no  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

The  neighborhood's  Summer  colony  was  largely 
recruited  from  fashionable  New  York  society. 
Though  this  disappeared  with  the  coming  of  frost 
every  Autumn,  the  Episcopal  church  it  had  built 
and  pledged  itself  to  support  remained  open  for 
divine  worship  all  the  year  'round. 

Young  Sam  Slawson,  white-surpliced,  heavenly- 
voiced,  singing  Pilgrims  of  the  Night,  Crossing 
the  Bar,  and  O  Paradise!  at  poor  Allan  Sherman's 
funeral,  moved  some  of  the  more  emotional  to 
tears.  After  a  decent  interval  they  waited  on 
Mr.  Ronald  in  a  body  respectfully  soliciting  his 
contribution  toward  a  fund  they  were  raising  for 
the  creation  and  maintenance  of  a  vested  choir 
for  St.  Martin's  in  the  Mountains.  Mr.  Ronald 
quietly  informed  them  he  had  already  arranged 
for  such  a  fund  on  his  own  account,  "  In  memory 
of  my  brother." 

Before  Martha  was  fairly  aware  she  saw  her 
wish  for  young  Sam  realized.  He  was  again  in 
a  position  to  benefit  by  the  introactive  influences 
of  a  "  white  rubdynwee  an'  the  lookin'-inta- 
heaven,  goo-goo  eyes  goes  with  it." 

All  through  the  rest  of  the  Summer  and  during 
the  Autumn  "  Slawson's  Sammy "  worked  with 
Mr.  Woodruff,  the  choirmaster,  imported  from 
New  York,  in  the  interests  of  the  new  enterprise. 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  in 

He  literally  "  beat  up "  volunteers,  initiating 
them  with  mysterious  rites  into  the  fellowship 
of  surpliced  choristers.  And  all  the  while  he 
was  a  man  whose  dearest  hopes  had  been 
shattered,  whose  tenderest  feelings  had  been 
outraged. 

Mr.  Ronald  had  married  Miss  Claire  Lang! 
Had  married  her  and  taken  her  off  with  him  on  a 
trip  around  the  world. 

It  was  December  before  Richard  was  himself 
again,  and  then  it  was  only  the  prospect  of  Christ- 
mas that  really  took  his  mind  off  his  sorrow. 

41  Christmas,"  announced  Mr.  Woodruff  at  the 
last  rehearsal  but  one  before  the  great  event, 
"  Christmas  is  not  a  season,  it  is  an  attitude  of 
heart.  It  is  not  a  day,  it  is  a  feeling.  Now,  let 
us  see  if  we  can't  sing  our  hymns  and  anthems  as 
if  we  really  understood  what  Christmas  means." 

The  silence  that  had  lasted  while  the  choir- 
master spoke  did  not  outlive  his  words.  The  in- 
stant he  paused,  it  gave  way  to  a  shuffling  of  feet, 
surreptitious  cracking  of  knuckles,  coughs,  cuffs, 
sniffs,  and,  as  a  sort  of  reckless,  triumphant  finale, 
a  shrill,  prolonged  whistle. 

"  Order!  "  commanded  the  choirmaster. 

Looking  down  on  the  cluster  of  stolid  young 
faces  before  him,  he  thought  that,  if  the  boys  only 


112 

knew  it,  his  own  "  attitude  of  heart "  was  any- 
thing but  Christmas-like. 

"  They're  a  tough  lot !  Unruly  little  Hessians ! 
I'm  a  fool  to  moralize  to  them.  Not  a  word  I 
say  gets  under  their  skins.  And  that  Sammy 
Slawson  is  the  ringleader.  Come  to  order,  Slaw- 
son!  We  are  all  waiting  for  you!  " 

It  so  happened  that  Sammy  was  not  in  this 
case  the  chief  offender.  Something  in  the  choir- 
master's slip  of  the  eye  struck  the  boys  as  irre- 
pressibly  laughable.  A  half-smothered  snicker 
went  the  rounds  and  an  ironical  voice  whispered : 
"  Hit  'im  again,  he  has  no  friends !  " 

Mr.  Woodruff  recognized  the  moment  as 
crucial.  His  discipline  hung  in  the  balance.  If 
he  did  not  maintain  it  now,  he  might  never  be 
able  to  command  it  again.  Without  stopping  to 
reason  out  or  sift  the  case,  he  brought  his  fist 
down  smartly  on  his  desk. 

"  Order,  I  say!  Slawson,  you're  excused  from 
morning  drill.  If  you  go  to  pieces  to-morrow 
night  at  our  song-service,  don't  blame  me.  I'm 
here  to  rehearse  you,  but  if  you  make  it  impossible 
it  is  not  my  fault." 

Sammy  gathered  up  his  effects  with  well-feigned 
composure  and  slowly  sauntered  from  the  room. 
Once  outside  the  door  his  air  of  unconcern  for- 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  113 

sook  him.  His  pale  face  flushed,  his  eyes  grew 
bright  and  abnormally  big.  He  made  directly  for 
home. 

His  appearance  caused  some  disturbance  in  the 
group  gathered  about  the  kitchen-table.  Cora 
rose  with  a  very  conscious  air  and  hummed  herself 
out  of  the  room.  Ma  doubled  her  apron  over 
her  lap,  obviously  with  the  purpose  of  hiding 
something  underneath.  Francie  whisked  in  and 
out  of  her  chair,  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  then 
clapped  her  hand  over  her  mouth  with  no  ap- 
parent object  but  to  arouse  and  pique  his  curiosity. 
Sammy  felt  the  sting  of  solitude  in  a  crowd.  He 
was  deliberately  shut  out  and  away  from  his  own 
share  in  the  home-confidences. 

He  saw  his  mother  shake  a  cautioning  head 
in  Francie's  direction,  before  she  turned  to 
him. 

"  I  thought  you  was  at  your  singin'." 

"  I  was." 

"Well,  why  ain't  you  there  now,  then?  The 
practisin'  ain't  over,  is  it?  You  told  me  your- 
self, to-day  an'  to-morra'd  be  the  most  important 
of  all,  seein'  to-morra  night's  Christmas  eve,  an' 
your  song-service'll  be  then,  same  as  it  was  down 
home." 

Sammy's  shoulders  hunched  up  expressively,  in- 


ii4  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

dicating  his  lack  of  interest  and  responsibility  in 
the  whole  business. 

"What  made  you  come  away?"  his  mother 
plied  him  with  exasperating  persistency. 

"  I  don't  feel  good." 

"What  ails  you?" 

"Nothin'  .  .  ." 

"  That's  easy  cured.  Get  busy.  You  walk  your 
body  back  to  that  choir-practice  double-quick, 
d'you  hear  me,  young  fella?  " 

Before  Sammy  could  protest,  Francie  broke  in, 
unable  to  contain  herself  a  second  longer. 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"  I  d'know." 

"  Miss  Claire  ...  I  mean  Mrs.  Ronald  .  .  . 
mother  she  got  a  letter  from  her  to-day  And  she 
sent  Cora  and  Sabina  and  me  five  dollars  in  it. 
'Tain't  a  Christmas  present,  she  says.  It's  to 
spend  the  way  we  want  to.  Now,  what  do  you 
think  of  that!  " 

The  muscles  in  Sammy's  neck  thickened  visibly. 

"  Did  she  send  me  any?  " 

"  No." 

His  jaws  set. 

"  She  said  the  men  in  the  fam'ly  would  get  what 
was  comin'  to'm  Christmas  day  outa  the  box 
her  an'  Mr.  Ronald  packed  for  us,  which  it  was 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  115 

bound  to  get  here  prompt,"  Martha  explained, 
to  take  the  edge  off  his  disappointment.  "  But 
she  said,  bein'  a  girl  herself  she  knew  a  little 
extra  wouldn't  come  amiss  to  your  sisters,  for 
spendin'  money  'round  this  time." 

His  sense  of  injury  was  rapidly  getting  the  bet- 
ter of  young  Sam.  He  swallowed  hard,  manfully 
trying  to  brave  it  out. 

"  Just  think!    Fi-ive  dollars!  "  exulted  Francie. 

Sammy  gulped.  "  You  don't  mean  .  .  .  five 
dollars  for  each  of  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Five  for  Cora  'n'  five  for  Sabina 
'n'  five  for  me.  To  spend  the  way  we  want  to, 
on  anything  we  like." 

Sammy,  in  extremity,  clutched  at  the  first  straw 
within  reach  to  make  good  his  loss.  "  You  said 
— if  you  had  money  to  burn — you'd  bl-blow  me 
to  something  I'd  like.  What  you  going  to  gimme, 
hey?" 

Francie's  face  fell. 

"  I  told  you  once  already  I  don't  want  any 
of  your  old  patched-up  duds.  D'you  remember?  " 

His  mother  paused  in  her  passing  back  and 
forth  between  oven  and  pantry. 

"  Say,  young  fella,  while  we're  at  it,  s'pose  you 
tell  us  what  you're  goin'  to  give  your  sister,  for 
a  change.  You  got  five  dollars,  and  more  too, 


ii6  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

on  your  own  account,  outa  your  surplus  singin'. 
While  you're  waitin'  to  hear  what  Francie's  goin' 
to  do  with  her  money,  give  us  all  a  surprise-party 
an'  tell  us  what  you're  plannin'  to  get  Francie 
for  her  Christmas.  Let's  hear  you  tell,  till  we  see 
will  she  like  it." 

The  end  had  come.  Endurance  had  been  taxed 
to  the  breaking-point.  Sammy  flung  his  books  on 
the  table  with  a  crash. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  everybody,  I  should 
like  to  know !  "  he  roared,  shaking  from  head  to 
foot  with  rage  and  shame.  "  Everybody  is  down 
on  me !  Everybody  lays  for  me,  to  gimme  a  biff 
when  they  can.  Nobody's  got  a  show  in  this  house 
only  girls.  If  father  had  any  gimp  to  him  he'd 
kick,  the  way  we're  put  on  ...  him  and  me. 
It's  up  to  him.  If  he  wants  to  stand  for  it  he 
can,  but  I'm  no  tame  cat.  I'm  sick  an'  tired  of 
being  treated  like  a  dog,  just  'cause  I  ain't  a 
girl.  Men's  got  some  rights.  Tell  you  what  it 
is,  I'm  done  with  you  all — the  whole  darn 
push!" 

The  violence  of  his  outburst  swept  him  before 
it  as  a  leaf  in  a  gale.  The  room  fairly  whistled 
and  wheeled  with  the  onrush  of  his  whirlwind 
passion. 

Ma,  cowering  back  in  her  corner,  whimpered 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  117 

weakly,  Francie,  saucer-eyed  with  surprise  and 
alarm,  clutched  her  chair  with  both  hands,  while 
Cora,  hearing  the  hubbub,  appeared  in  the  door- 
way, pausing  petrified  on  the  threshold  before  the 
spectacle  of  Sammy  transformed  into  a  sort  of 
human  volcano  in  eruption.  Only  Martha  stood 
firm,  calmly  waiting  for  the  explosion  to  subside. 
Instead  of  subsiding  it  waxed  more  fast  and  furi- 
ous, until  at  last,  caught  up  as  in  a  maelstrom, 
Sammy  spun  'round  and  'round,  sobbing,  shouting, 
shaking,  a  poor  bit  of  humanity  at  the  mercy  of 
a  great  elemental  force  which  he  had  not  learned 
to  control. 

From  some  hidden  recess  of  his  mind  sprung 
the  vision  of  a  hero's  escape,  as  vividly  described 
on  the  film  of  some  seemingly-forgotten  "  movie." 
It  acted  as  a  stimulus.  He  grabbed  up  his  father's 
clasp-knife  which  happened  to  lie  open  on  the 
mantelshelf,  waved  it  melodramatically  about  his 
head  and,  whooping  "  Revenge !  Revenge !  "  shot 
bodily  from  the  room.  A  moment  later  were 
heard  his  heavy  steps  on  the  floor  above,  then 
his  quick  descent  of  the  stairs,  and  last  the  chug- 
chug  of  his  motorcycle  (a  recent  gift  from  Mr. 
Ronald).  Then  silence. 

Martha  folded  her  arms  across  her  bosom. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  " 


ii8  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

When  Sam  senior  came  in  to  his  noonday 
dinner  he  found  a  red-eyed  family.  All  had  been 
crying  save  his  wife. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  inquired. 

It  was  Martha  who  answered. 

"  Sammy  thinks  he  ain't  had  a  square  deal,  or 
somethin',  here.  He's  soured  on  us  'cause  he 
feels  his  own  folks  don't  appreciate  him.  He's 
gone  off  to  seek  his  fortune,  where  he  won't  be 
up  against  such  a  hard  lot  as  us." 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  a  look  in  her 
eyes  that  went  to  big  Sam's  heart.  To  banish  it 
he  answered  jestingly: 

"  It's  a  poor  time  to  choose  for  chucking  your 
job.  You're  too  late  for  the  ball  in  the  place 
you  left,  and  too  early  for  it  in  the  place  you're 
going  to.  If  I  was  setting  out  to  change  my  situa- 
tion, I  wouldn't  select  two  days  before  Christmas 
to  do  it  in.  I'd  wait  to  see  what  I'd  draw,  in  the 
way  of  presents,  and  then  skip." 

The  girls  and  Ma  brightened  visibly  under 
the  influence  of  "  father's  "  uncharacteristic  lev- 
ity, but  Martha's  serious  mood  was  not  to  be 
so  lightly  dispelled.  She  and  Sam  seemed  to  have 
changed  places. 

*    "  Don't  fret,  mother!  "  he  tried  to  comfort  her. 
"  Our  young  man'll  think  better  of  it  by  sundown. 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  119 

He  ain't  used  to  being  very  far  away  from  his 
mammy  after  dark." 

"  And,  father,"  Francie  broke  in  plaintively, 
"  think  of  his  feeling  so,  when  we  got  such  lovely 
things  for  him!  We  never  had  such  a  nice 
Christmas  as  this  was  going  to  be.  Ma's  been 
knitting  him  a  sweater — a  beauty!  And  Cora's 
hemmed  him  a  silk  muffler,  and's  soon's  Miss 
Claire's  money  came  I  sent  to  Burbank  for  the 
best  hockey-stick  they  had  in  the  store!  " 

"  You'll  see,  your  brother'll  be  back  before 
night,  child,  like  little  Bo-peep's  sheep  your 
mother  used  to  tell  you  about.  Won't  he, 
mother?"  said  "easy"  Sam. 

Martha  nodded.  She  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  explain  before  them  all  that  she  had  discovered 
the  boy's  bank  (holding  his  precious  savings) 
broken  open,  emptied;  his  hooks  in  the  closet,  his 
drawer  in  the  dresser,  bare.  He  might  be  back 
before  dark,  as  his  father  foretold,  but  the  way 
things  pointed  it  certainly  didn't  look  like  it.  She 
went  about  her  work  less  buoyantly  than  usual, 
trying  to  make  up  for  her  inner  lack  of  gusto  by 
an  added  air  of  outward  energy. 

"  If  he  don't  show  up  by  dark  I'll  go  an'  fetch'm 
back  myself,"  she  told  her  heart  as,  behind  locked 
doors,  she  made  the  living-room  gay  with  Christ- 


120  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

mas  decorations  and  spread  the  wonderful  table 
that  was  to  hold  the  gifts  their  newly-acquired 
prosperity  made  possible,  that  to  her  eyes  looked 
a  princely  array. 

Evening  came  and  no  Sammy.  She  thought  of 
her  u  little  fella  "  out  in  the  cold  and  the  dark, 
alone.  Or  worse  than  alone,  in  the  company,  per- 
haps, of  those  who  might  "  lead  him  astray." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  experience  big  Sam 
saw  "  mother  "  exhibit  signs  of  nervousness.  The 
sight  stiffened  his  lips  into  a  line  of  uncharacter- 
istic severity. 

"  No,  I  won't  go  out  after  him,  and  neither  will 
you,  Martha,"  he  declared  with  new-born  deci- 
sion. u  Sammy's  got  to  have  his  lesson.  He 
needs  to  learn  a  thing  or  two.  You  womenfolks 
are  too  soft  to  deal  with  him.  He  knows  he  can 
wind  you  'round  his  little  finger.  Let  him  get 
what's  coming  to  him  once,  and  he'll  be  the  better 
for  it  all  the  rest  of  his  life." 

Martha's  broad  chest  fell  on  a  long-drawn 
breath. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  struck'm  lately  to  get 
such  a  grouch.  Nothin'  nobody  does'd  please'm. 
His  temper's  as  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg.  His 
face  was  so  red  this  mornin'  you  coulda  lit  your 
pipe  at  it." 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  121 

"  And  yet  you  have  '  the  faith  to  believe,'  as 
they  say  up  here,  there's  the  making  of  an  angel 
in  him?"  Sam  mocked  with  gentle  irony. 

Martha  swallowed  the  jibe  unresentfully.  "  I 
have  the  faith  to  believe  there's  the  making  of 
an  angel  in  all  of  us  " — she  rejoined.  "  But  that 
ain't  sayin'  we  look  like  our  pattren  when  we  get 
through.  God  knows  I'd  make  a  poor  show  'long- 
side  o'  the  lop-sidedest  angel  ever  flapped  a  wing. 
But  I  know,  the  way  I  feel  inside  me  sometimes, 
that  if  I  measured  up  as  I'd  oughta,  you  wouldn't 
have  so  much  difficulty  reco'nizin'  the  model,  as 
you  do  now.  The  thing  gets  me,  is  thinkin'  it'd 
be  easier  for  the  young  'uns  to  show  what  they're 
made  of,  if  their  mother  wasn't  such  a  kinda  mis- 
cut.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Sam,  Christmas  is  a 
sorta  tough  time  for  mothers,  if  they  stop  to  think 
about  it.  I  mean  the  way  there's  only  been  one 
of  us  ain't  fell  down  on  her  job  since  the  world 
began." 

"  I  wish  I  had  that  youngfman  here,"  remarked 
big  Sam  irrelevantly.  "  I  mean  Sammy,  of 
course." 

'  You  wouldn't  make  anything  by  lickin'  'm, 
Sam,"  pleaded  the  mother.  "  The  little  fella 
means  all  right,  'way  back  in  his  heart." 

"  I'd  like  what  he  means  'way  back  in  his  heart 


122  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

to  come  out  and  show  once,"  said  big  Sam 
grimly. 

"  There's  worse  than  him,  even  so.  And  .  .  ." 
Martha's  breath  came  hard.  "  And  anyhow,  I 
wanta  know  I  have'm  safe  home." 

She  took  a  step  toward  the  door. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  Martha." 

"Sam  .  .  .  it's  nine  o'clock!  " 

"  And  if  it  was  ten  ...  or  twelve!  " 

"  Sam  .  .  .  it's  .  .  .  Christmas! " 

She  waited  a  moment,  looking  to  see  him  yield 
to  this  strongest  plea  of  all.  He  stood  firm.  It 
was  she  who  yielded. 

It  was  well  on  toward  noon  when  Sammy's 
wheel  flashed  up  the  hill  beyond  Milby's  Corners. 
The  intervening  space  he  had  passed  in  moody 
solitude,  hidden  away  in  a  refuge  of  his  own  dis- 
covering, where  he  sometimes  went  when  the  barn- 
loft  haunt  was  inaccessible.  The  black  pall  that 
enveloped  him  had  lifted  ever  so  little  under  the 
influence  of  the  crisp  air  and  flashing  sunlight. 

He  had  left  the  house  without  any  definite  in- 
tention beyond  making  his  escape  from  detestable 
conditions,  plunging  "  the  whole  darn  push,"  as 
it  deserved  to  be  plunged,  into  depths  of  remorse 
on  his  account.  But  gradually  the  sharp,  resisting 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  123 

current  his  speed  created,  began  to  stiffen  his  mus- 
cles. He  felt  his  jaws  congeal.  He  tried  to  sound 
a  self-assuring  whistle  and  failed,  his  chin  seemed 
to  have  solidified.  He  dismounted. 

"  Maybe  it'd  warm  me  up  to  walk!  "  he  argued 
with  himself. 

It  was  only  then  he  noticed  the  unfamiliarity 
of  the  road,  the  absence  of  any  landmark  he  could 
by  any  possible  chance  recognize.  He  had  no 
idea  where  he  wanted  to  go,  but  that  was  not  to 
say  he  relished  having  no  idea  where  he  was. 

Pushing,  tugging  his  heavy  machine  up  the  rest 
of  the  hill  set  the  blood  to  racing  through  his 
veins.  He  began  to  feel  less  desperate.  Life  took 
on  a  more  cheerful  aspect.  It  was  no  longer  in- 
evitable that  he  become  a  solitary  wanderer  over 
the  face  of  the  earth,  forever  banished  from  the 
land  of  his  birth.  He  had  had  vague  notions  of 
Australia  as  a  likely  refuge  for  a  man  misunder- 
stood, undervalued.  Now  it  occurred  to  him  that 
possibly  California  might  be  far  enough  away. 
In  any  case,  there  was  no  reason  he  knew  of  why 
he  shouldn't  pause  to  take  breath  when  he  came 
to  the  top  of  the  hill. 

Evidently  the  same  sort  of  reasoning  had 
moved,  or  more  literally  halted,  someone  else. 

A  horse  and  empty  buggy  were  drawn  up  at 


124  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

the  side  of  the  road.  The  horse  was  untethered, 
a  blanket  had  been  thrown  across  his  back. 
Sammy  drew  his  own  conclusions,  smiling  to  him- 
self with  proud  complacence  at  his  power  of  de- 
duction. He  stood  and  waited  confidently  for  the 
owner  of  the  "  rig  "  to  appear.  He  had  not  long 
to  wait.  From  the  other  side  of  the  stone  wall 
a  hearty  voice  hailed  him. 

"Hullo  there!" 

"Hullo  yourself!" 

Sammy  wheeled  about  to  face  Mr.  Woodruff. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Woodruff,  genial,  smiling,  loaded  down 
with  spruce  and  hemlock  boughs. 

"Good  work!"  exclaimed  the  choirmaster. 
"  glad  to  see  you !  I  was  just  wondering  how 
I'd  get  this  over  without  spilling  it.  Lend  a  hand, 
will  you?  " 

Not  a  syllable  about  past  misdemeanors.  Not 
a  hint  to  recall  the  late  unpleasantness. 

His  wheel  propped  against  a  nearby  boulder, 
Sammy  sprang  to  the  rescue.  For  an  hour  and 
more  he  and  Mr.  Woodruff  worked  like  beavers. 
'  The  people  up  here  have  no  idea  what  our 
Christmas  song-service  is  going  to  be  like,  have 
they?  I  suggested  to  some  of  the  fellows  to  help 
me  gather  greens,  but  I  could  see  they  weren't  very 
keen  about  it,  so  I  started  out  to  do  it  alone." 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  125 

"  One  buggyful  won't  make  much  of  a  show," 
Sammy  pronounced  authoritatively. 

"  Right  you  are.  But  my  purpose  is  to  come 
back  again  and  again,  through  the  afternoon  and 
to-morrow  if  necessary.  Your  mother  prom- 
ised she'd  help  decorate  the  church  .  .  .  she 
and  your  father  and  the  girls.  Mr.  Ronald 
told  me,  before  he  went  away,  that  I  could 
always  depend  on  your  mother.  He  said  she  was 
a  brick." 

"  She  is !  "  The  words  were  out  before  Sammy 
had  time  to  think. 

'  Your  father's  busy  to-day,  else  he  would  be 
helping  now.  The  horses  are  in  use  on  the  farm 
somewhere.  But  I'm  to  have  them  to-morrow, 
he's  promised  me.  And,  many  hands  make  light 
work.  I  don't  expect  to  be  short  on  holly  and 
hemlock.  What  troubles  me  is  that  I  haven't 
enough  fellows  to  climb  ladders  and  tie  gar- 
lands .  .  .  not  enough  little  angels  to  sit  up  aloft 
and  do  the  overhead  decorating." 

"  I'll  help,"  said  Sammy. 

It  could  make  no  vital  difference  if  he  deferred 
his  journey  for  a  day.  Besides  it  would  be  "  sort 
of  mean  "  to  leave  Mr.  Woodruff  in  the  lurch  at 
the  last  minute,  with  no  one  to  get  away  with  the 
solo  parts  in  "Silent  Night,  Holy  Night!", 


126  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  When  Shepherds  Watched  Their  Flocks,"  and 
all  the  rest  of  it. 

He  could  see  the  little  Gothic  church  as  it  would 
appear  if  Mr.  Woodruff  took  St.  Vincent's  "  down 
home  "  as  a  model. 

The  aisles  would  be  arched  over  with  spruce 
and  hemlock  boughs.  The  pillars  would  be 
wreathed  with  garlands  of  green.  From  their 
capitals  but  one  or  two  electric  lights  would  peep, 
through  the  screening  foliage,  like  real  stars.  The 
place  would  be  dim,  fragrant,  mysterious;  the  air 
full  of  rich,  harmonious  echoes  from  out  of  the 
great  hidden  organ  flanking  the  choir.  Then, 
into  the  soft,  melodious  gloom  would  come  the 
choristers,  each  with  a  tall  lit  candle  in  his  hand, 
so  that,  as  the  singing  band  progressed,  it  was 
with  light  as  well  as  song,  until  at  last  the  chancel 
would  be  a  blaze  of  glory,  resounding  with  praise. 

Clearly,  it  would  never  do  to  miss  this ! 

When  his  craft  was  loaded  to  the  gunwales  Mr. 
Woodruff  turned  a  grateful  face  toward  young 
Sam. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  with- 
out you!  " 

Sammy  grimaced,  awkward  with  pleasure. 

"  You  won't  fail  to  show  up  to-morrow  for  re- 
hearsal— it's  the  last,  you  know." 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  127 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  won't  forget!  " 

"  You  see,  I  depend  on  you,  Slawson,  to  help 
me  with  my  job  here.  These  fellows  are  new  to 
the  business.  They  don't  understand  the  duties 
of  a  church-singer.  A  choir's  like  a  regiment,  in 
a  way.  There's  got  to  be  order  and  obedience. 
There's  got  to  be  one  at  the  head  to  keep  disci- 
pline. You  could  make  things  about  half  again 
as  easy  for  me,  if  you'd  act  as  my  aide.  Will 
you?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Your  hand  on  it!" 

The  two  clasped  in  silence.  The  next  moment 
Mr.  Woodruff  had  scrambled  to  his  seat  in  the 
buggy,  making  a  place  for  himself,  somehow,  in 
and  among  the  branches  with  which  the  carriage 
was  crammed.  He  paused  before  starting  the 
horse. 

"  Coming  my  way?  " 

Sammy's  hand  was  on  his  wheel.  "No,  sir! 
That  is,  I  ...  I  ..."  His  soul  was  in  a  state 
of  conflict.  He  could  not  proceed. 

He  stood  looking  after  the  buggy  until  it  be- 
came a  mere  speck  at  the  far  turn  of  the  road, 
'way  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 

He  had  pledged  his  word  to  stand  by  the  choir- 
master. He'd  have  to  go  back  in  the  end.  But 


128  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

he  couldn't  do  it  yet.  Not  yet.  He  mounted  his 
wheel  with  a  leap  and  dashed  forward  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Burbank,  twenty-five  miles  away.  What 
was  that  Mr.  Woodruff  had  said  this  morning 
about  Christmas  not  being  a  day,  or  a  season? 
What  did  he  mean  by  "  an  attitude  of  heart  "  ?  He 
had  told  the  boys  Christmas  was  a  feeling.  .  .  . 
Young  Sam  raised  his  voice  and  sent  a  wild  whoop 
echoing  out  into  space.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
the  heart  inside  him  was  beginning  to  celebrate? 

Ten!    Eleven!    Midnight! 

Big  Sam  dared  not  glance  at  Martha.  He  had 
grown  to  dread  the  look  on  her  face.  Well,  if  she 
was  going  to  take  it  this  way.  .  .  .  He  rose  to 
consult  the  clock,  though  it  had  just  struck  twelve. 

"  I  wouldn't  'a'  thought  so  much  about  it,  but 
he  had  your  clasp-knife.  An'  he  was  in  the  sorta 
blind  rage  you  wouldn't  know  what  he'd  do  with 
it,"  Martha  let  fall,  unconsciously  speaking  her 
thoughts  aloud. 

"Hush!"  cautioned  big  Sam  suddenly. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  gate.    I  heard  someone  at  the  gate." 

"  He  couldn't  get  in  unless  you  went  out  an' 
unlocked  for'm." 

Martha's  voice  vibrated  curiously,  giving  her 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  129 

words  the  sound  less  of  a  statement  than  of  an 
appeal. 

"  If  he  wants  to  come  in,  he'll  have  to  ring  or 
.  .  .  skin  through  the  hedge,"  said  Sam. 

Again  they  waited  in  silence,  as  they  had  been 
doing  most  of  the  night,  ever  since  the  girls  and 
Ma  had  gone  to  bed. 

They  waited  so  long,  in  fact,  that  at  last 
Martha  shook  her  head. 

"  I  guess  we're  stung.    It  wasn't  him  at  all." 

The  next  moment  was  heard  a  footstep  on  the 
porch. 

Big  Sam  went  to  the  door  and  swung  it  wide. 
The  words  on  his  lips  were  ready  to  utter,  but  they 
remained  unspoken. 

How  could  one  demand  of  a  haggard,  travel- 
worn  waif,  out  of  whose  grimy  face  shone  two 
eyes  luminous  with  a  sort  of  ecstatic  rapture, 
..."  Well,  young  fellow,  what  have  you  got 
to  say  for  yourself?  This  is  a  pretty  time  of 
night!  .  .  ." 

Big  Sam  tried  to  speak.  The  syllables  slipped 
away  into  the  Land  of  Unspoken  Folly,  and  he 
never  regretted  them.  He  just  stood  and  held  the 
door  wide,  as  if  he  were  welcoming  his  son  in  out 
of  the  night. 

Martha  appeared  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  the 


130  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

lamp  held  high  above  her  head.  Somehow  it 
flashed  across  young  Sam's  brain  that  she  looked 
like  the  big  statue  on  Bedloe's  Island,  "  down 
home "...  Liberty  Enlightening  the  World. 

"  I  been  to  Burbank,"  he  confessed  readily. 
"  It  was  late  when  I  got  there.  ...  I  stopped 
on  the  way  to  help  Mr.  Woodruff  cut  trees  for 
the  church  .  .  .  and  when  I  got  there,  I  didn't 
think  what  I  was  about  until  .  .  .  till  .  .  .  the 
places  began  to  shut  up." 

"What  places?"  asked  Sam  senior  mildly, 
with  a  cadence  none  but  Martha  would  have  in- 
terpreted as  piteous. 

"  Why,  the  stores.  Where  I  was.  When  I 
saw  they  was  all  shutting  up,  I  thought  I'd  better 
be  getting  back.  Only,  I'd  forgot  the  gasoline 
for  my  wheel  and  .  .  .  'bout  halfway  home  it 
give  out.  .  .  ." 

"  And  you  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  home 
...  on  your  two  feet?  Twelve  miles  through 
the  night  .  .  .  and  you  never  out  after  dark  in 
the  country  before?" 

A  touch  of  awe  mingled  with  the  pride  and  re- 
proach in  Martha's  voice. 

Sam  turned  to  his  boy.  "  Here,  son,  sit  down 
to  your  supper." 

There  was  that  in  their  speech  to  the  lad  that 


THE  CHORISTER  INVISIBLE  131 

made  eloquent  dialogue  between  husband  and 
wife. 

For  answer,  Sammy  darted  out  from  under  his 
father's  hand.  He  was  gone  but  a  couple  of 
minutes.  When  he  returned  he  had  his  wheel 
with  him.  Strapped  to  it,  at  every  conceivable 
and  inconceivable  point,  were  packages,  big,  little, 
and  medium-sized. 

"  For  the  love  o'  Mike  I"  gasped  Martha. 

Sammy  bent  to  the  task  of  untying  the  cords, 
trying  to  appear  manly  and  unconcerned.  His 
fingers  trembled  with  eagerness. 

Several  times  big  Sam  besought  him  to  take  his 
supper,  but  there  was  no  room  in  the  boy's  large 
ecstasy  for  so  petty  an  act  as  eating. 

Again  and  again,  as  he  displayed  his  treasures, 
Martha  shot  a  look  at  her  man,  a  look  that  really 
was  a  searchlight  thrown  out  to  illuminate  his 
dull  apperception.  And  all  the  while  Sammy  was 
exulting : 

"  Looka  that !  The  best  they  had  in  the  store ! 
D'you  think  Cora'll  like  that? "  or,  "  See  this ! 
Ain't  it  a  daisy?  Cost  two  dollars  and  a  half! 
What  do  you  s'pose  Francie'll  say  when  she  knows 
it's  for  her?"  ...  all  the  while  the  same 
searchlight  pointed  its  index-finger  back,  to  under- 
score a  mother's  faith  in  the  unseen  spirit  of  good 


'i32  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

that  lay  concealed  in  the  poor  little  turbulent  soul 
of  her  boy. 

"  But  say,"  Martha  laid  a  detaining  hand  on 
Sammy's  shoulder.  "  Say,  if  you  spent  so  much 
on  your  sisters  an'  ...  the  rest  of  us  .  .  .  where 
does  your  Christmas  come  in?  What  did  you  get 
yourself?  " 

Sammy  looked  up,  the  same  new-born,  un- 
familiar, inscrutable  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  didn't  think  about  myself,"  he  said  joy- 
ously. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE 

A 5  the  door  closed  on  Cora's  departing  figure 
Martha  looked  at  her  husband,  a  quizzical 
glint  in  her  eye. 

"  It's  a  poor  family  can't  support  one  lady!  " 
she  observed  laconically. 
Sam  shook  his  head. 

'  You  may  think  it's  a  joke,"  he  took  her  up 
with  unrelaxed  gravity,  "  but  I  don't  see  where 
the  laugh  comes  in.  In  this  life  you  get  things 
on  your  plate  that  you've  got  to  swallow,  but  it's 
rubbing  it  in  to  expect  you'd  smack  your  lips  over 
them." 

Martha's  gaze  rested  on  her  man  with  large 
maternal    indulgence.      "  Doncher    care,    Sam!" 
she  said,  as  if  she  were  soothing  an  injured  child. 
His  grievance  resisted  such  easy  placating. 
'  You  may  relish  it,  but  /  don't,"  he  continued, 
"  having  a  girl  who  considers  herself  above  her 
folks.     Cora's  not  content  unless  she's  trying  to 
copy  her  betters." 

133 


134  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

For  a  long  moment  Martha  was  silent,  ob- 
viously occupied  with  the  task  of  making  a  point 
clear  to  herself,  in  order  that  she  might  make  it 
clear  to  Sam. 

"  There's  no  harm  trying  to  copy  your  betters,'' 
she  elucidated  at  length,  "  the  great  thing's  findin' 
out  who  really  is  your  betters.  Cora's  got  aholt  o' 
the  wrong  end  o'  the  stick.  That's  where  her 
trouble  comes  in." 

Sam  weighed  her  words.  "  Well,  you'll  bear 
me  out,  it  was  never  with  my  approval  she  went 
to  Mrs.  Sherman  in  the  first  place.  If  it  had  been 
Miss  Claire  now — (Mrs.  Ronald,  I  should  say) 
it  would  have  been  different.  Miss  Claire's  a  lady 
from  the  ground  up.  But  Mrs.  Sherman — with 
all  her  money,  Mrs.  Sherman's Sam's  head- 
shake  filled  in  the  ellipsis  with  eloquence. 

"  Those  few  weeks  Cora  went  over  to  the  big 
house,  when  Eugenie  had  tonsillitis,  did  more  mis- 
chief than  we  can  undo  in  years.  Sitting  sewing 
in  her  room,  doing  her  hair,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,  a  girl  gets  kind  of  intimate  with  her  lady,  and 
I  could  see  from  the  way  Cora  acted  when  she  got 
home  Mrs.  Sherman  was  getting  in  her  fine  work, 
all  right." 

"  It  ain't  fair  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Mrs. 
Sherman,"  Martha  corrected  him,  in  the  cause 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  135 

of  strict  justice.  "  Cora's  been  what  you  might 
call  a  high-stepper  ever  since  she  was  born.  The 
best  wasn't  too  good  for  her.  She  always  had 
notions  above  her  station,  about  dress  an'  livin' 
an'  suchlike.  But  I  never  worried  my  head  much. 
'  Because,'  thinks  I,  '  give  her  time,  an'  age'll  bring 
her  sense.'  ' 

"  I  wish  it  was  doing  it,"  lamented  Sam. 

Martha  smiled.  "  Doncher  get  downhearted, 
Sam.  Nineteen  ain't  as  old  as  it  might  be,  even 
so." 

"  I  know,  but,  by  the  same  token,  nineteen 
ain't  so  young  as  it  might  be,  either.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  when  Cora  gets  married  I  pity  her 
husband !  " 

Martha's  chin  went  up  with  a  jerk. 

;<  The  way  you  men  hang  together's  a  caution! 
Here  are  you  now,  waatin'  your  sympathy  on 
Cora's  husband,  when  she's  a  whole  houseful  of 
women-relations  right  in  the  same  house  with  her. 
Besides,  for  all  you  know,  she'll  never  have  a  hus- 
band." 

"  A  good-looking,  strapping  girl  like  Cora?  " 

"  Well,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  her  followers  ain't 
wearin'  the  doorsill  down — not  to  any  great 
extent." 

Sam  removed  his  pipe  from  between  his  lips 


136  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

long  enough  to  suggest:  "There's  Theron 
Cowles." 

"  I'd  forgot  Theron  Cowles." 

"  He's  a  good  boy,  solid  and  steady.  I  hope 
he  won't  get  out  of  the  notion  of  Cora  while  she's 
down  with  her  Uncle  Dennis  in  New  York,  galli- 
vanting about  with  the  Cheap-Johns  her  Aunt 
Sarah'll  pick  out  for  her.  Sarah  was  always  a 
great  hand  at  match-making.  And  all  her  matches 
turn  out  .  .  ." 

"  Punk,"  supplied  Martha. 

"  Theron  is  nobody's  fool,"  Sam  continued. 
"  I've  watched  him  and  I  know.  We'd  be  lucky 
to  have  such  a  fine  chap  marry  our  girl.  But 
with  the  notions  she's  got,  she'll  look  higher." 

"  To  a  stovepipe  hat,  you  mean?  Well,  Cora's 
not  the  first'll  have  gone  through  the  woods  with 
her  nose  in  the  air,  only  to  pick  up  with  a  crooked 
stick  in  the  end,"  an  observation  which  did  not 
have  as  soothing  an  effect  upon  Sam's  perturbed 
spirit  as  might  have  been  expected. 

As  the  days  went  by  Martha  found  her  thoughts 
reverting  to  what  her  husband  had  laid  before  her. 
The  idea  of  Cora's  being  "  too  big  for  her  boots  " 
was  no  novel  one  to  her.  Its  application  to  the 
girl's  own  future  was. 

"  It's  easy  enough  for  a  mother  put  up  with  her 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  137 

children's  figaries,  so  long's  she's  the  only  one  gets 
stung.  It's  when  they  bounce  back  onto  the  kids 
'mselves  the  mothers  feel  like  lettin'  out  a  groan. 
I  don't  mind  Cora's  little  airs  an'  graces.  She 
likes  pretty  things  an'  high-toned  folks  an'  stylish 
ways  o'  livin'.  An'  if  that's  her  taste,  her  taste 
it  is.  I'm  the  last  one  to  say  a  word  against'm, 
for  I  like'm  myself.  They're  good  in  their  way, 
but  they  ain't  the  best.  It's  the  best  I  want  for 
my  girl." 

It  was  obvious  from  the  tone  of  her  letters  that 
Cora  thought  she  was  getting  "  the  best "  in  New 
York.  Uncle  Dennis  had  a  house  of  his  own.  She 
dwelt  at  length  on  the  way  Uncle  Dennis's  house 
was  furnished;  the  way  Aunt  Sarah  shopped  for 
the  girls;  the  way  the  girls  "went  to  every- 
thing "  and  had  crowds  of  beaus.  "  Elegant  fel- 
lows .  .  .  perfect  gentlemen.  I  wish  you  could 
see  their  clothes!"  Aunt  Sarah  kept  servants. 
Aunt  Sarah  changed  her  dress  every  afternoon: 
the  girls  called  it  "  dressing  for  dinner."  Uncle 
Dennis  was  never  allowed  to  sit  at  table  in  his 
shirtsleeves,  "  like  father  does."  They  danced 
evenings  to  the  Victrola.  It  was  an  elegant  Vic- 
trola.  It  had  cost  three  hundred  dollars.  Uncle 
Dennis  was  terribly  well  off.  Why  hadn't  father 
gone  into  the  contracting,  the  same  as  Uncle 


138  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Dennis?  Aunt  Sarah  said  if  a  man  had  any  gimp, 
and  got  in  right  with  the  ward,  there  was  no  end 
to  the  money  he  could  make.  Several  of  the  girls' 
"  gentlemen  friends  "  were,  apparently,  "  in  with 
the  ward."  .  .  .  The  girls  liked  some  of  Cora's 
clothes.  The  ones  Mrs.  Sherman  had  given  her, 
and  her  mother  had  made  over  for  her.  The  rest 
they  thought  "  country  "  .  .  .  "  Uncle  Dennis  says 
it's  too  bad  father  has  had  to  go  to  the  back- 
woods to  live.  Uncle  Dennis  says  a  man  has  no 
chance  to  advance  himself  in  the  backwoods.  He 
just  ends  up  where  he  began,  like  any  stick-in-the- 
mud.  Aunt  Sarah  says  she  guesses  mother  likes 
the  country  better  than  the  city.  It's  more 
mother's  style.  It  kind  of  made  me  mad  when 
Aunt  Sarah  said  that.  I  don't  s'pose  she  meant 
anything  by  it,  but  it  sounded  real  mean." 

"  Mean?  "  commented  Martha.  "  Sure  it  ain't 
mean.  It's  just — Sarah." 

For  some  time  Sam  listened  to  the  reading  of 
Cora's  letters  in  thoughtful  silence.  Then  he 
struck. 

"  Say,  mother,  I've  had  about  as  much  of  this 
as  I'm  going  to  stand.  You  tell  Cora  to  come 
down  off  her  high  horse.  Tell  her  she  might 
thank  her  stars  if  she  was  half  as  good-looking, 
or  half  as  smart,  or  half  as  anything  else  as  you. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  139 

You  tell  her  I  say  so.  Let  her  put  that  in  her 
pipe  and  smoke  it." 

"Why,  Sam,"  said  Martha  "ain't  you 
touchy!  " 

"  The  cheek  of  her!  "  Sam  exploded  with  un- 
characteristic heat.  "  To  think  she  can  hand  her 
mother  out  tips.  She,  that  can't  hold  a  candle  to 
you,  nor  ever  could,  if  she  only  had  the  sense  to 
see  it." 

Martha  shook  a  tolerant  head. 

"  Leave  her  be.  Doncher  fash  yourself  over 
her,  father.  Cora's  eating  her  white  bread  now. 
She'll  come  to  the  hard  crusts  soon  enough.  If, 
when  her  time  comes,  she  don't  break  a  tooth, 
gnawin'  on'm,  I  won't  say  a  word." 

And  so  the  letters,  with  their  undercurrent  of 
easy  patronage,  clumsy  side-thrusts,  and  uncon- 
scious revelations  of  Cora's  sense  of  superiority, 
continued  to  come,  and  though  they  "  riled  "  Sam 
more  and  more,  Martha  read  them  without  the 
slightest  trace  of  discomfiture. 

Up  to  this  time,  Francie  had  always  attended 
the  neighborhood  gatherings  as  under  Cora's 
wing,  secure  in  the  knowledge  of  her  sister's 
capacity  to  cope  with  circumstances,  satisfied  to 
shine  in  her  reflected  glory.  When  the  elder  girl 
went  away  Francie,  feeling  the  ground  cut  from 


I4o  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

under  her  feet,  tried  to  evade  whatever  "  doings  " 
she  was  asked  to  attend. 

"  Thank  you  ever  so  much,  but  .  .  ."  she 
started  to  decline.  Martha  cut  her  short. 

"  Sure  she'll  go.  Of  course  you'll  go,  Francie. 
She's  kinda  timid  without  her  sister,  but  that's  all 
notions,  an'  she'll  soon  get  over  her  shyness,  if 
she  sails  right  in  an'  goes  where  she's  invited." 

Alone,  Martha  admonished  her  seriously. 

"  You  can't  be  a  little  old  woman  before  your 
time.  What's  the  matter  with  you  to  be  such 
a  'f raid-cat?  You're  as  good  as  the  next  one. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  lift  your  head  and  speak  up 
like  a  lady  when  you're  spoken  to,  an'  you'll  get 
along  fine  as  silk.  Besides,  I  want  you  to  go  for 
me.  I'd  have  nothin'  to  amuse  me,  if  it  wasn't  for 
you  girls  goin'  out  sometimes,  an'  comin'  home  an' 
tellin'  me  about  it." 

So  Francie  went,  and  after  it  was  discovered 
that  she  was  a  natural-born  wall-flower,  content  to 
sit  quietly  in  the  background  while  others  had  the 
fun,  they  left  her  to  her  own  resources,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  since  she  was  "  dumb  "  she  must 
be  blind  also. 

"Well,  what  kinda  time  did  you  have?"  her 
mother  asked  casually,  locking  up,  as  she  always 
did,  after  the  last  late-comer  had  been  admitted. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  141 

Francie  paused  halfway  up  the  stairs. 

"  O,  very  nice,"  she  answered  politely,  in  the 
tepid  tone  of  indifference. 

Martha  followed  her  above  without  further 
question.  But  later,  when  she  was  unhooking  the 
party-dress  (a  service  the  girls  customarily  per- 
formed for  each  other),  the  reticent  tongue  was 
loosed. 

"  Mother  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"  Tell  away." 

"  Do  you  know  .  .  ." 

Pause. 

"Do  I  know  .  .  .  what?" 

"  Do  you  know,  Theron  Cowles  used  to  like 
Cora  a  lot?" 

"Used  to?  You  mean,  he  don't  like  her  no 
more?  " 

"  No,  not  just  that.  I  guess  he  likes  her  all 
right.  But  ...  I  wish  she  hadn't  gone  away." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  much.  Only,  you  see,  when 
Cora's  home,  Theron  goes  with  her  all  the 
time." 

Inwardly  Martha's  eager  spirit  was  chafing  at 
the  delay. 

"  For  the  love  o'  Mike !  "  she  mentally 
ejaculated,  "hurry  up  your  horses!"  Never  an 


142  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

outward  sign  did  she  give  of  her  impatience,  how- 
ever. Just  waited  for  Francie  to  unbosom  herself 
as  she  felt  moved  to  do,  without  the  least  attempt 
to  prod  her. 

The  next  observation  was  deeply  suggestive. 

"  I  don't  like  Bessie  Kirkland  very  much." 

"Why  doncher?" 

"  It's  no  fair,  the  way  she  acts.  She  goes  and 
takes  other  girls'  fellows  away  from  them." 

"Now  what  do  you  think  o'  that!"  said 
Martha. 

"  Howard  Chalmers  was  terribly  fond  of  Ger- 
trude Clough  and  .  .  .  and  ...  do  you  know 
what  Bessie  did?  Somehow  she  made  trouble  be- 
tween them,  and  now  they  don't  keep  company 
any  more.  They  don't  even  speak.  She  took 
Howard  away  from  Gertrude. 

"How'dshe  'take'  'm?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Where  was  Gertrude  when  she  was  doin'  it?  " 

"  Right  here." 

"  You  mean  to  say  Gertrude  just  stood  along- 
side an'  let  her  beau  be  grabbed  off'n  her  by  an- 
other girl  an'  never  lifted  a  hand?" 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  knew  what  to  do." 

"  Then  she  deserves  to  lose'm  I  "  Martha 
asseverated. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  143 

"  But,  mother,"  Francie's  tone  bordered  on  the 
tearful,  "  isn't  it  awful  for  a  girl  to  behave  so? 
To  go  behind  another  one's  back  and — and — be  a 
traitor  to  her." 

Martha  did  not  reply  at  once.  When  she  did, 
it  was  with  a  careful  choosing  of  words,  as  if  she 
were  deliberately  selecting  such  as  would  wound 
the  least. 

"  Yes,  it  is  awful,"  she  admitted  slowly.  "  But 
it's  the  sorta  thing  everybody  meets  with  every  once 
in  a  while  all  through  life.  The  only  way  is,  when 
you're  stung,  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  an'  don't  let 
the  poison  get  inta  your  system.  You  can  keep  it 
out  if  you  wanta." 

"  But,  mother  .  .  ." 

"  First  or  last  everybody  comes  across  such 
people.  /  have,  an'  your  father  has,  an'  .  .  ." 

Francie's  face  lost  none  of  its  gloom. 
'  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  admitted  reluctantly, 
"  but  that  don't  comfort  me  any.  I  never  thought 
my  life  or  Cora's  was  going  to  be  like  yours  and 
father's.  Your  life  and  father's  seem  to  me  so 
kind  of  ...  kind  of  ...  doleful" — the  word 
was  out  at  last. 

Martha  looked  up,  a  curious  ghost  of  her  own 
humorous  smile  flitting  across  her  face.  "  O, 
does  it?  Well,  now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that! 


144  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

You  certaintly  have  took  a  rise  outa  me  this  time. 
I  never  supposed  that  was  the  kinda  figga  we  cut, 
your  father  an'  me.  I  thought  we  managed  to 
make  as  cheerful  a  show  as  most.  But  doncher 
worry  about  us,  my  dear.  We  ain't  no  kick  comin', 
either  of  us.  You  can  ask  him  an'  see." 

The  light  of  amusement,  now  complete,  in  her 
mother's  eye  was  utterly  lost  on  the  literal  Francie. 

"  I'm  not  worrying  about  you,"  she  made  haste 
to  explain.  "  It's  .  .  .  it's  Cora  I'm  .  .  ." 

"  Worryin'  about  ?    What  ails  Cora  ?  " 

"  Bessie  never  liked  Howard  so  much  as  she 
liked  Theron.  Anybody  could  see  that.  She  just 
went  after  Howard  because  he's  better-looking 
and  smarter  than  John  Turner,  the  one's  been 
keeping  company  with  her  ever  since  they  were 
tiny  bits  of  things,  and  she  knew  she  had  no  show 
with  Theron  when  Cora  was  around.  But  now 
Cora's  gone.  .  .  ." 

"  She's  gettin'  in  her  fine  work  with  Theron?  " 

Francie  nodded,  relieved  that  at  last  the  truth 
was  out. 

Martha's  broad  bosom  lifted  as  she  breathed 
it  in,  as  on  a  deep,  long  inhalation.  She  folded 
her  arms  across  her  chest. 

"What  makes  you  think  Cora'd  care?  Seems 
to  me  Cora's  doin'  some  fancy  side-steppin'  on  her 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  145 

own  account.  If  she  goes  off,  down  to  the  city, 
cavortin'  about  with  all  sorts  o'  strange  young 
Lord  Tomnoddies,  why,  I  don't  see  why  there's 
any  call  to  reserve  her  place  with  Theron  here. 
She  can't  occupy  two  seats  at  once  .  .  .  one  at 
one  show  and  one  at  another.  I  ain't  no  use  for 
parties,  '  don't  know  whether  I  will  or  not,  but 
will  you  please  hold  a  chair  for  me,  in  case  I 
might.'  An'  when  you  done  it,  an'  made  yourself 
disliked  tellin'  the  crowd  you're  keepin'  it  for  a 
friend,  they  never  show  up  at  all,  an'  you  get  the 
name  o'  bein'  a  liar  along  with  the  shame  o'  makin' 
a  nuisance  o'  yourself.  That  Bessie-one  has  a  per- 
fect right  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  so 
long's  Cora  left  her  a  free  field  to  do  it  in." 

"  Cora  didn't  know,"  wailed  Francie.  "  Cora 
thought  Bessie  was  all  right.  She  thought  she  was 
John  Turner's  girl,  and  so  she  is.  And  she  ought 
to  stick  to  him,  oughtn't  she?  But  she  likes 
Theron  better.  And  she  knows  Theron  likes 
Cora.  And  Cora  .  .  ." 

"  What  makes  you  think  Cora  likes  Theron 
back?  " 

Francie's  eyes  grew  wide.  It  was  as  if  it  had 
never  entered  her  head  that  Cora  or  anyone  else 
should  not  "  like  Theron  back." 

Martha  could  have  told  her,  that  for  the  sec- 


146  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

ond  time  this  evening  she  had  taken  "  a  rise  outa 
her."  What  she  read  in  those  wide,  unsuspecting 
eyes  caused  her  own  to  fall.  When  she  spoke  it 
was  in  a  peculiarly  gentle  voice. 

"  And  you'd  like  to  see  that  your  sister's  fella's 
kep'  for  her,  the  way  she'll  have  the  refusal  of'm 
when  she  comes  home?  " 

Francie  nodded. 

For  a  long  time  Martha  pondered  it  in  silence. 
When  she  spoke  again,  it  was  in  the  business-like 
tone  of  a  lawyer  cross-examining  a  witness. 

"  You  say  this  Bessie-one  would  chuck  a  fella's 
been  sparkin'  her  on  the  level  ever  since  she  was 
a  youngster?  That  she  gives  encouragement  to'm 
when  she  can't  do  no  better,  but  the  first  chance 
she  gets  she  ups  an'  tries  to  get  away  with  a  chap 
belongs  to  a  friend  o'  hers?  " 

Again  Francie  nodded. 

"  Why,  that  girl's  a  born  body-snatcher,"  ob- 
served Martha  meditatively.  "  And  you  think 
Cora'd  really  care  if  she  got  back  an'  found  her 
.  .  .  found  Theron  had  changed  his  mind?" 

Francie's  answer  did  not  come  at  once,  but  when 
it  did  it  was  conclusive. 

"  I  know  she  would." 

"  How  d'you  know?  " 

"  She  couldn't  help  it." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  147 

Martha's  only  comfort  was  that  the  girl  did 
not  realize  what  her  admission  implied.  But  there 
it  was.  The  words  had  been  spoken. 

;'  Why  don't  you  step  in  an'  try  your  hand 
savin'  her  fella  for  your  sister?  " 

With  a  quick,  startled  look  Francie  shrank 
back,  as  if  to  escape  the  touch  of  the  crude  sug- 
gestion. 

"  Never  you  mind  my  nonsense,"  Martha's  re- 
turn to  her  own  matter-of-fact  tone  was  instan- 
taneous, carrying  perfect  conviction.  "  Never 
you  mind  my  nonsense.  I  was  only  foolin'.  An' 
now,  get  a  move  on,  child.  It  ain't  far  off  mid- 
night. Quick!  Undress  you  an'  go  to  bed.  An' 
doncher  fret  your  heart  out  over  Cora  an'  her 
love-affairs.  Cora'll  have  her  innings  someway, 
never  you  fear.  Her  kind  always  does.  It's  .  .  . 
it's  a  different  sort  o'  girl  from  her  gets  eternally 
left,  worse  luck!  Good-night  to  you!  " 

Again  and  again,  during  the  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed, Francie  sighed  for  her  sister's  return,  un- 
able to  endure  the  thought  of  all  she  was  missing. 
The  village  seemed  to  have  taken  on  a  new  lease 
of  life.  Never  before  had  there  been  so  many, 
such  various  festivities. 

The  ball  was  set  rolling  by  big  Sam  Slawson's 
inviting  all  the  "  young  folks  "  to  a  moonlight 


148  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

straw-ride.  Followed  a  barn-dance,  a  candy-pull, 
tableaus.  There  was  no  end  to  the  list  of  amuse- 
ments. 

"  Mother's  starting  in  to  renew  her  youth,  ain't 
you,  mother?"  big  Sam  inquired,  his  large  gaze 
fixed  on  his  wife  half-quizzically,  half-question- 
ingly. 

"  Well,  why  wouldn't  I  be  renewin'  it?  "  Mar- 
tha took  him  up  promptly.  "  It  was  a  perfeckly 
good  youth,  wasn't  it?  A  body'd  get  stale  keepin' 
inside  her  four  walls  all  the  time.  It  does  you 
good  to  get  a  breath  o'  fresh  air  sometimes,  an'  a 
squint  at  what's  goin'  on  about  you." 

"  Seems  to  me  you've  taken  an  uncommon  fancy 
to  that  young  Kirkland  girl,  Jessie,  Bessie  .  .  . 
what'shername?  What  makes  you  favor  her  so 
much?  You  had  her  sitting  next  to  you  on  the 
straw-ride.  She  had  the  place  of  honor  pouring 
chocolate  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  night  of  the 
barn-dance.  Won't  the  other  girls  get  jealous?  " 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Martha. 

If  Cora's  visit  was  not  extended,  neither  was 
it  curtailed.  She  stayed  in  the  city  as  long  as  she 
had  planned  to  stay,  no  longer.  Sam  went  to 
meet  her  at  Burbank  Junction  with  the  motor- 
runabout.  He  told  Martha,  before  he  left  home, 
that  he  "  would  apologize  to  Miss  Cora  when  he 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  149 

saw  her,  for  not  having  brought  Mrs.  Ronald's 
limousine. 

"  I'll  say  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Ronald  would  have 
given  me  the  loan  of  it  if  she  had  realized  who 
it  was  I  was  going  to  fetch." 

"  Doncher,  Sam,"  Martha  shook  a  disapprov- 
ing head  at  him.  "  Doncher  start  in  the  first  thing 
to  plague  her,  before  she's  had  a  chance  to  get 
warm  in  the  place  again.  No  matter  if  she  is 
chesty,  she's  our  own.  Doncher  let  her  feel  we 
ain't  glad  to  get  her  back." 

But  even  without  her  admonition  Sam  would 
have  foreborne.  Unobserving  of  minutiae  as  he 
generally  was,  he  saw  the  instant  he  set  eyes  on 
the  girl  that  some  sort  of  telling  change  had 
taken  place  in  her. 

"  Did  you  have  enough  to  eat  at  your  uncle's?  " 
he  inquired  bluntly,  while  he  stood  looking 
in  at  her  over  the  car  door,  as  he  waited  for 
the  baggage-man  to  search  out  and  surrender 
her  trunk. 

Cora  smiled  at  the  strange  question.  "  Of 
course  I  did.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  looking  a  bit  spare." 

"  I  weigh  as  much  as  I  did  when  I  went  to  the 
city." 

"  Well,  if  you  haven't  lost  weight,  you  certainly 


150  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

haven't  put  on  any  flesh.  I  don't  think  your 
mother'll  let  you  go  away  from  home  in  a  hurry, 
if  you  come  back  looking  as  if  you  were  half- 
fed." 

Sam  was  unequal  to  a  diagnosis  more  subtle 
than  this.  He  continued,  following  up  his  first 
impression: 

"  Well,  I  guess  you'll  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the 
good  home-table,  even  if  they  did  give  you  your 
fill  in  New  York.  You  can  set  your  mouth  for 
fried  liver  and  bacon  for  supper.  Your  mother 
ordered  it  special  because  you  like  it." 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  the  Lodge, 
dark  and  cold  and  very  still.  For  once  in  her 
life  Cora  was  glad  her  father  was  not  loquacious. 
The  journey  home  from  the  junction  had  been 
made  almost  without  words  on  either  side.  She 
would  be  glad  to  see  her  mother,  of  course,  but 
no  one  on  earth  could  guess  how  she  dreaded  her 
stream  of  questions,  the  sharp  detective  practice 
of  her  keen,  deep-searching  eyes. 

The  sound  of  Sam's  motor-horn  brought  Mar- 
tha to  the  big  gate.  In  the  light  from  the  electric 
globes  surmounting  the  two  granite  gate-posts, 
Cora  saw  that  mother  had  on  her  best,  Sunday-go- 
to-meeting  dress.  What  Martha  saw  was  not  so 
superficial. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  151 

"  Here,  Sammy,  take  your  sister's  bag,  an'  stop 
your  shoutin' !  Sabina,  doncher  hang  onto  Cora 
like  that — you're  a  great  heavy  girl  now — you  ain't 
a  baby  no  more.  Childern,  there's  too  much 
noise!  We're  not  deaf.  Now,  Cora,  come  along 
in  an'  warm  you.  It's  chilly  ridin'.  There's  a 
roarin'  fire'll  do  your  heart  good.  I  guess  you 
ain't  seen  such  logs  in  New  York." 

So  much  her  mother  said  before  drawing  Ma 
with  her  into  the  kitchen  beyond,  disposing  quietly 
of  Sammy  and  Sabina,  and  leaving  Cora  to  thaw 
out  in  the  genial  fire-glow  with  gentle  Francie  for 
company. 

"  What  ails  her,  mother?  "  asked  Sam,  puzzled, 
when  hours  after  the  two  of  them  were  left  in  soli- 
tude downstairs,  the  rest  having  long  since  gone 
to  bed.  '  Mother '  was  going  the  rounds,  seeing 
the  locks  were  fast,  covering  up  the  embers,  mak- 
ing all  safe  and  sound  for  the  night. 

"  She'll  never  tell  you,"  returned  Martha. 

"Will  she  tell  you?" 

"  Prob'ly  not.  She'd  think  I  '  wouldn't  under- 
stand.' Cora's  a  good  girl,  but  as  I  told  you  be- 
fore she  thinks  she's  kinda  thrown  away  on  the 
likes  of  us.  Whatever's  happened  to  her.  .  .  ." 

In  his  eagerness  Sam  plunged  in  without  giving 
her  a  chance  to  finish  her  sentence. 


152  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  Then  you  think  something  has  happened  to 
her?  " 

Martha  had  the  intent  air  of  one  casting  out 
a  long  line  to  bring  in  a  special  catch.  "  O'  course 
somethin's  happened  to  her.  Something's  all  the 
time  happenin'  to  all  of  us.  Sometimes  it  happens 
in  a  lump,  sometimes  it  happens  gradual.  That's 
the  only  difference.  If  you  really  ask  me  what  I 
think,  I  truthfully  tell  you  I  think  Cora's  got  it 
in  the  lump — an'  it's  caught  her  right  in  the  neck, 
as  the  sayin'  is.  An'  if  you  ask  me  why  I  think  so, 
I'll  tell  you  because  she  has  the  look  of  it.  She 
looks  like  she'd  had  to  come  off'n  her  perch  too 
sorta  suddent-like  for  comfort  or  neatness.  She 
looks  like  she  got  a  hard  swat,  missed  her  footin', 
an'  slipped  up  in  a  mud-puddle.  It'll  take  her  a 
while  to  feel  free  of  the  spatters  and  tidied  up, 
fresh  and  starchy,  same  as  she  was  before.  It 
goes  hard  with  the  youngsters  the  first  time  they 
get  thrown  down.  By-an'-bye,  as  we  grow  older, 
we  don't  mind  so  much.  We  either  break  the 
shock  plasterin'  ourselves  up  with  soft-soap,  or 
we  get  callous-like  an'  don't  feel  the  bruise. 
Cora's  got  all  she  can  do  to  keep  her  chin  up,  I 
can  see  that.  We  got  to  be  pationate  with  her  for 
a  while.  The  worst  you  could  make  one  like  Cora 
suffer'd  be  if  you  took  down  her  pride." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  153 

"  But  it's  just  that  that  would  do  her  good," 
Sam  contended. 

Martha  shook  her  head. 

"  It  all  depends.  People  are  like  dress-goods. 
If  you're  Ai  mater'al  to  begin  with,  you  won't 
show  thin  while  there's  a  thread  of  you  left.  Your 
color'll  hold,  an'  your  quality'll  last,  no  matter 
how  much  wear  an'  tear  you've  had.  But  shoddy 
goods !  It  wouldn't  pay  you  to  try  to  get  the  spots 
out.  You'd  only  make  a  worse  botch  of  it.  Cora's 
always  wanted  to  be  a  fine  lady.  Now  she's  got 
the  chance  of  her  life  to  prove,  is  she  the  genu- 
ine  article  or  only  a  poor  imitation?  " 

"  When  Theron  blew  in  to  supper,  I  thought 
she'd  be  pleased.  But  if  she  was,  she  didn't  show 
it.  I  think  Theron  felt  strange.  I  think  that  was 
the  reason  he  left  so  early." 

Martha's  response  bewildered  her  husband. 

"  You  can  take  it  from  me,  Sam  Slawson,  it's 
goin'  to  pay  you  not  to  '  think '  too  much,  where 
the  young  folks's  concerned.  Just  you  content 
yourself  attendin'  strickly  to  your  own  business, 
which,  if  you  do  it  good  an'  thora,  is  enough  to 
take  up  all  of  anyone's  time  an'  attention.  You 
leave  the  young  folks  be,  like  I'm  goin'  to." 

"  Why,  you  .  .  .  you!  .  .  ."  Sam  found  it 
difficult  to  express  his  surprise  at  her  effrontery. 


154  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

..."  You're  the  one  that's  been  running  the 
whole  young  folks's  shebang  lately.  They  think 
they  can't  get  on  unless  Mrs.  Slawson  is  paddling 
their  canoe  for  them.  I  tell  you,  it's  a  caution,  the 
way  you've  come  out!  " 

"  An'  now  it'll  be  another  caution,  the  way 
I'll  go  in,"  said  Martha.  "  You  keep  your  eye 
on  me,  an'  you'll  see  me  fade  away,  same  as  the 
vanishin'  lady  at  the  vaudeville  show.  I'm  done 
with  my  stunt,  an'  now  it's  me  for  the  simple  life 
again." 

"  Your  stunt?  "  queried  Sam. 

"  Come  along  up.  It's  late,"  said  Martha. 
"  Time  little  boys  was  abed  an'  asleep." 

Nothing  that  Cora  said  or  did  during  the 
months  that  followed  tended  to  throw  the  least 
light  on  her  particular  situation,  as  her  mother 
had  roughly  sketched  it.  She  spoke  in  a  general 
way  of  having  had  a  good  time,  answered  all 
Ma's  questions  with  what  seemed  like  perfect  can- 
dor, and  if  she  did  not  volunteer  any  information 
beyond,  neither  did  she  have  the  appearance  of 
holding  anything  back.  And  yet,  Martha  knew 
she  was  holding  something  back. 

Once  or  twice  Francie  strove  to  express  her- 
self confidentially  to  her  mother,  vaguely  con- 
ceiving that  she  was  under  bond  to  account  for 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  155 

her  sister's  singular  behavior  to  Theron,  in  the 
light  of  the  preference  she  herself  had  claimed 
Cora  entertained  for  him. 

"  Never  you  mind  about  that,"  Martha  reas- 
sured her.  "  I  don't  doubt  your  word  she  likes'm 
or,  leastwise,  did  like'm.  Girls  get  notions  some- 
times. She  may  have  changed  her  mind.  You 
never  can  tell.  If  Theron  cares  about  her  enough 
he  won't  let  go.  He'll  hang  on  till  he  finds  out 
for  sure,  and  if  he  don't  hang  on,  why,  that'll 
prove  he  don't  care  enough — an'  there  you  are! 
It  ain't  our  funer'l,  anyhow." 

Nor  did  it  prove  Cora's  and  Theron's 
funeral. 

They  were  married  the  following  Autumn.  It 
was  a  "  grand  "  wedding.  Personally  conducted 
by  Mrs.  Ronald,  generously  financed  by  her  hus- 
band—Martha's beloved  "  Mr.  Frank." 

"  It's  a  caution  the  way  we  have  the  elegant 
weddin's  in  our  fam'ly,"  Mrs.  Slawson  mused, 
in  the  first  quiet  moment  following  the  bridal 
couple's  departure  after  the  ceremony. 

"  First,  there  was  mother's  an'  father's. 
You've  heard  me  tell  how  Mrs.  Underwood  give 
mother  a  layout  you  wouldn't  see  matched  in  a 
day's  travel.  An'  then,  there  was  mother's  again, 
the  second  time  she  was  married,  after  father 


156  MARTHA  AND  CUPID> 

died — to  Ryan.  An'  then  there  was  yours  an' 
mine,  Sam,  that  Miss  Frances.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  call  ours  'grand'?"  Sam  ventured 
mildly. 

Martha  threw  a  look  at  him.  "  I  do  that !  Not 
the  same  kinda  grand  as  Cora's,  maybe,  but  grand 
the  way  I  liked  it.  Walkin'  up  the  church-aisle, 
togged  up  in  a  white  dress  with  a  fool  tail  ...  I 
should  say  a  tool  veil  ...  is  just  Cora's  style.  It 
ain't  mine.  We  gener'ly  get  what's  comin'  to 
us." 

"  Do  you  think,"  Sam  brought  it  out  only  after 
considerable  effort,  "  Do  you  think  her  heart  is 
set  on  him,  Martha?  That's  the  only  thing  wor- 
ries me.  I'm  not  dead  sure  Cora  is  as  fond  of 
Theron  as  he  is  of  her." 

To  his  surprise  Martha  did  not  "  sit  down  on 
him." 

"  If  she  is,  or  if  she  isn't,  it's  not  for  me  to 
say.  Cora  is  a  close-mouthed  one.  You'd  never 
know  what's  goin'  on  in  her  mind,  much  less  in 
her  heart.  If  Theron  is  satisfied,  that's  all  we 
have  to  do  with  it.  One  thing,  you  can  take  it 
from  me  .  .  .  Cora  won't  have  played  him  any 
low-down  trick.  She  won't  have  let'm  go  it 
blind." 

"  But  you'd  think,  even  if  a  girl  was  naturally 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  157 

close-mouthed,  she'd  let  out  a  little  ...  to  her 
mother  .  .  .  around  the  time  she  was  going  to 
get  married.  Don't  girls  generally  talk  to  their 
mothers?  .  .  ." 

For  the  first  time  Sam  saw  a  suspicious  moisture 
suffuse  Martha's  eyes.  A  moment,  and  all  was 
clear  again. 

"  When  a  girl  gets  ready  to  trust  her  mother, 
that's  the  time  for  the  mother  to  listen.  Cora  ain't 
got  ready  yet.  P'raps  she  never  will.  Either  way 
about,  I  ain't  complainin'.  I  can  bide  my  time 
as  long  as  she  can  hers." 

But  the  time  passed,  weeks  growing  into 
months,  months  into  a  year,  and  still  the  girl  kept 
her  own  counsel. 

Once  or  twice,  during  the  long,  tedious  period  of 
suspense,  when  the  two  sat  together  in  Cora's  pretty 
living-room,  stitching  away  patiently  at  the  tiny 
garments  that  were  to  cover  the  scrap  of  hu- 
manity the  whole  world  seemed  at  a  standstill, 
waiting  breathlessly  to  welcome,  Martha's  cov- 
ertly watching  eyes  caught  a  look  in  Cora's  face 
that  went  to  her  heart. 

"  It's  the  mother  in  her  waking  up." 

Then,  early  one  evening,  toward  the  end,  came 
the  hour  Martha  had  been  looking  for. 

"  Mother,"  said  Cora,  drawing  her  chair  very 


158  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

close  to  the  other's,  so  their  knees  fairly  touched, 
as  they  sat  facing  each  other  ..."  Mother, 
there's  something  I'd  like  to  say  to  you  before 
.  .  .  before  .  .  .  while  I  have  time." 

"  Say  away,"  encouraged  Martha  without  look- 
ing up,  appearing  to  fix  all  her  attention  on  the 
corner  she  was  turning. 

"  Isn't  it  funny  how  you  can  have  got  your 
growth,  and  be  as  tall  as  you  ever  will  be  ... 
and  yet,  not  be  grown-up  at  all?  " 

"  Sure." 

"  When  I  went  to  New  York  I  was  an  awful 
kid." 

Martha  stroked  her  seam  down  carefully  with 
her  needle-point,  and  waited. 

"  And  it's  just  as  funny  how  folks  that  seem 
like  what  you  are  yourself  ...  I  mean,  they  look 
like  you,  and  walk  and  talk  and  breathe  like  you, 
and  eat  just  the  same  .  .  .  they're  no  more  like 
you,  really,  than  .  .  .  than  if  they  were  out  of 
another  country  .  .  .  no,  not  even  that!  Born  on 
another  world." 

"  Certaintly." 

u  I  know  we're  awfully  plain  folks  .  .  .  our 
family.  I  never  could  bear  to  give  in  to  it  when 
I  was  .  .  .  home  .  .  .  But  now  I  don't  care.  It 
used  to  make  me  mad  as  hops  the  way  I  never 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  159 

could  make  us  anything  different.  I'd  want  to 
scream  sometimes  .  .  .  seeing  father  sit  down  to 
table  in  his  shirtsleeves,  when  Mr.  Ronald 
wouldn't  do  it  for  all  the  world.  I  hated  Ma's 
brogue,  and  the  children's  noisy  ways  and  .  .  ." 

"  My  clackin'  away  bad  grammar  to  beat  the 
band,"  supplied  Martha  with  perfect  equanimity. 

"  But  there  was  one  thing  I  always  knew.  I 
always  knew  I  could  count  on  my  folks.  We're 
square.  We  mean  to  do  the  fair  thing  by  other 
folks.  You  could  trust  us.  Till  I  went  to  New 
York  I  never  knew  everybody  wasn't  like  that.  I 
took  it  for  granted  they  were  our  own  kind." 

Martha  stitched  away  with  unflagging  industry. 

"  Lots  is,"  she  brought  out  cheerfully. 

Cora's  hand  upon  her  knee  trembled  visibly. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"  Lots  aren't."  Then,  after  a  moment,  she 
followed  it  up,  still  more  lucidly,  with  amplifi- 
cation. 

"  Uncle  Dennis  and  Aunt  Sarah  aren't.  Nor 
the  girls.  They're  just  as  different  from  anything 
I  ever  dreamed  of,  as  ...  as  ...  They  had 
me  down  there.  They  gave  me  my  food  and 
drink.  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against 
them." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Martha. 


160  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  I  used  to  think  Ma  lived  with  us  because 
father  was  her  favorite.  But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  did 
you  know  Ma's  always  lived  with  us  because  .  .  . 
none  of  the  rest  would  have  her?  They  don't  want 
her!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?  " 

"  Seems  to  me,  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  have 
heard  o'  such  a  thing,"  admitted  her  mother. 

Cora's  muscles  were  tense  with  suppressed  feel- 
ing. She  gazed  into  Martha's  face,  watching  for 
the  sudden  shock  of  surprise  she  was  sure  must 
follow  her  awful  revelation.  When  it  did  not 
come  the  girl  leaped  to  the  conclusion  she  had  not 
made  her  meaning  clear.  .  .  . 

"Not  want  .  .  .  their  own  mother!"  she  in- 
sisted. 

Martha  reared  a  proud  head. 

"  Ma  don't  need  to  look  to  nobody  for  the 
sup  an'  the  bite  she  puts  in  her  mouth.  She's  a 
home  of  her  own  as  good  as  the  best  of  them  .  .  . 
if  it  ain't  so  stylish  as  some.  She's  no  call  to  say 
'  thank  you  '  to  nobody  for  what  they  wouldn't 
be  glad  to  give  her  ...  an'  I'd  tell'm  so  to  their 
faces." 

For  a  long  unhurried  minute  the  two  sat  in 
silence.  Then  Cora  took  up  her  thread  again. 

"  When  I  first  went  down  there,  I  thought  it 
was  all  perfectly  elegant.  It  seemed  wonderful 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  161 

to  have  your  own  relations  living  like  that,  in  a 
whole  house,  with  servants  and  a  player-piano  and 
.  .  .  everything.  The  girls  are  terribly  stylish. 
The  fellows  that  come  to  the  house  .  .  .  you'd 
never  know  them  from  Mr.  Ronald,  by  the  looks 
of  their  clothes.  First-off,  I  thought  they  were 
really  like  him  ...  I  mean,  grand  and  rich  and 
.  .  .  refined." 

Martha  nodded  her  complete  understanding  of 
the  mistake. 

"  There  was  one  .  .  .  the  stylishest  of  all  ... 
he  was  fearfully  good-looking.  Uncle  said  he  had 
a  '  fat  city  job  '  and  '  loads  of  luck  coming  to 
him.'  He  was  nicer  to  me  than  anybody  ever 
was  before.  He  was  different  from  anybody  I'd 
ever  known  before.  He  sent  me  flowers,  and 
candy  .  .  .  and  books.  You'd  think  the  clothes 
he  wore  were  right  out  of  the  store — never  a  spot 
or  a  sign  of  wear  on  them  .  .  .  and  a  straight 
crease  right  down  the  front  of  the  pants  .  .  .  just 
like  Mr.  Frank's.  His  hands  were  nice,  too  .  .  . 
and  his  nails.  He  kept  reminding  me  of  Mr. 
Ronald  all  the  time — in  his  looks  and  his  ways 
and  everything  he  did.  I  guess  that  was  what 
started  me  liking  him.  I  did  like  him  ...  a 
whole  lot.  At  first  I  couldn't  believe  he  liked  me 
back  .  .  it  was  too  much  luck  .  .  but  when 


162  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Uncle  and  Aunt  and  the  girls  began  teasing  me, 
I  ...  I  let  myself  go  and  just  was  happy  and 
proud  and  .  .  .  grateful.  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  have  the  things  I'd  always  dreamed  about  .  .  . 
a  handsome  husband  with  lots  of  money,  so  I  could 
be  like  Miss  Claire  is  ...  and  live  in  the  city  and 
see  all  that's  going  on,  and  be  able  to  do  for  my 
folks.  I'll  never  forget  the  way  I  felt.  It  was 
as  if  I'd  got  into  fairyland  and  found  my  prince, 
for  fair.  I  thought  of  ...  the  fellows  up  here 
.  .  .  and  they  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  him.  I 
called  them  '  clumsy  hayseeds  '  in  my  mind." 

"  Did  the  fella  come  to  time?  "  Martha  asked 
the  question  as  if  it  were  quite  immaterial  whether 
he  did  or  not. 

Cora  nodded  a  mute  affirmative.  Evidently 
there  was  something  tongue-tying  in  the  admis- 
sion. It  took  her  a  while  to  recover  her  speech. 

"  Everything  went  right  for  a  month  or  so,  and 
then  .  .  .  well,  I  wouldn't  have  married  him 
after  what  I  found  out,  if  he'd  been  the  President 
himself,  all  covered  with  gold.  He  told  me  to 
'  come  down  off  my  perch.'  He  said  I  had  '  hi- 
falutin  notions,'  and  when  Uncle  found  out  he 
sided  with  the  .  .  .  fellow.  He  called  me  a 
chump  and  said,  right  before  everybody,  that  I 
could  thank  my  stars  for  a  chance  like  I  had,  to 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  163 

marry  somebody  with  enough  sense  to  come  in 
when  it  rained.  He  said  you  couldn't  be  '  too 
d—  -  particular  '  in  this  world,  and  I'd  better 
show  some  sense  and  not  be  such  a  fussy  young 
fool.  I  wanted  terribly  much  to  look  at  it  their 
way,  because  I'd  thought  such  a  lot  of  the 
fellow.  But  somehow  I  couldn't.  I  could  only 
see  it  the  way  .  .  .  you  and  father  would  have 
seen  it." 

"  Was  it  then  you  come  home?  "  asked  Martha. 

"  No.  I  stayed  my  time  out  because  you'd  have 
thought  strange  if  I'd  left  earlier  than  I  meant  to, 
and  I  was  afraid  to  face  a  lot  of  questions.  I  was 
as  sick  and  sore  as  if  I'd  been  beaten.  There 
wasn't  a  bit  of  my  flesh  that  didn't  ache  so,  you'd 
think  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I'd  liked  him  such  a 
lot  ...  and  he  was  so  awful!  Somehow  the 
shame  of  what  he  was  seemed  to  smutch  me.  I 
thought  I  couldn't  be  very  nice  myself  if  I'd  liked 
the  kind  he  was." 

"  You  didn't  like  the  kind  he  was,"  corrected 
Martha.  "  You  liked  the  kind  you  thought  he 
was.  That's  about  as  far  as  any  of  us  gets." 

"  Then  I  didn't  want  to  come  home  before  I 
had  to,  because  .  .  .  there  was  Theron.  I  just 
couldn't  face  him  when  I  knew  the  way  I'd  treated 
him  in  my  heart.  I'd  gone  back  on  him.  I'd  set 


164  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

the  other  one  over  him  .  .  .  and  the  other  wasn't 
fit  to  black  his  boots !  When  Gertrude  wrote  me 
that  Bessie  was  trying  her  arts  on  Theron  I'd 
thought :  '  Let  her.  She's  welcome  to  him.  I've 
better  down  here.'  How  could  I  expect  Theron  to 
be  true  to  me  when  I  .  .  .?  Don't  you  see  how 
it  was?  " 

"  But  Theron  was  true  to  you."  Martha's 
voice  was  magnificently  steady. 

Cora  raised  her  eyes  until  they  met  and  fixed 
her  mother's. 

"  Yes,  I  know  Theron  was  true  to  me.  And 
.  .  .  and,  what's  more,  I  think  I  know  why." 

"  Theron's  a  good  boy.     One  of  the  best." 

"  Surely.  Nobody  knows  that  better  than  I  do. 
If  he  wasn't  he  wouldn't  have  told  me  that  he 
might  have  gone  over  to  Bessie.  He  said  he  did 
like  her  some,  first-off,  and  he  might  have  got  to 
liking  her  more  if  ...  if  he  hadn't  seen  the  kind 
she  was.  I  asked  him  how  he  got  to  see  it,  and 
he  said  he  didn't  know.  But  I  guess  I  know.  I've 
put  two  and  two  together  and  the  answer  is  ... 
You.  You  never  butted  in  to  the  young  folks' 
affairs  before.  It  came  to  me  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning one  day  when  I  was  wondering  .  .  .  that  you 
did  it  to  ...  to  save  my  beau  for  me.  It's  true. 
You  did  it  for  that,  didn't  you?  " 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  165 

"Now  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  Martha 
exclaimed  as  if  to  scout  the  preposterous  idea. 

Cora  shook  her  head.  "  You  could  fool 
Francie,  but  you  can't  fool  me.  I  know  what  you 
did.  I  only  don't  know  how  you  did  it." 

She  waited  for  her  mother  to  enlighten  her. 

"  Francie's  heart  was  broke  thinkin'  Bessie  was 
bewitchin'  your  fella  away  from  you.  So,  as 
Bessie  had  a  perfeckly  good  beau  of  her  own,  an' 
no  business  meddlin'  with  other  girls'  followers 
anyhow,  I  just  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  Kinda  kep'  her  occupied  alongside  me,  where 
she'd  be  harmless  to  the  unsuspectin',  an'  Satan 
couldn't  find  some  mischief  still — or  noisy  either 
.  .  .  for  her  idle  hands  to  do.  First-off  I  thought 
I'd  sic  Francie  on  Theron.  But  then  I  thought 
'  No !  Francie  ain't  got  much  gimp.  She's  a  shy 
little  thing.'  An'  second,  if  it  so  happened  she'd 
make  a  hit  with'm,  why,  there  you'd  be  as  bad 
off  as  ever  ...  an'  he  was  yours  to  begin  with. 
So,  the  only  thing  left  was  just  sail  in  an'  take  a 
turn  at'm  myself.  I  was  pretty  clumsy  at  first. 
It's  a  long  time  since  I  was  a  girl,  an'  had  fol- 
lowers o'  my  own,  an'  my  hand's  kinda  out.  But, 
as  I  went  on,  it  all  sorta  come  back  to  me  gradual, 
and  you'd  be  surprised  how  good  we  got  along." 


166  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

"  Theron  can't  get  over  it,  how  much  he  likes 
you.  Theron  thinks  you're  wonderful.  He  told 
me  right  off,  he  was  terribly  gone  on  you.  I'd 
better  make  up  my  mind  to  that.  I  told  him  I 
was  willing.  He  couldn't  like  my  mother  too 
much  to  suit  me." 

Martha  bowed  ceremoniously. 

"  '  Thank  you,  thank  you,  sir,'  she  sayed. 
'  Your  kindness  I  never  shall  forget !  '  All  the 
same  mother  isn't  goin'  to  take  any  chances. 
Wives  get  funny  notions  sometimes.  There's 
nothin'  queerer  than  a  wife  .  .  .  exceptin'  a 
husband." 

"  Theron  never  held  it  against  me  for  a  minute 
.  .  .  what  I  told  him  about  New  York." 

"So  you  did  tell  him?  ...  I  was  won- 
derin'  .  .  ." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  told  him.  Wouldn't  you 
have?" 

Martha  gave  the  question  time  to  sink  in. 

"Me?  Well,  no.  I  don't  s'pose  I  would.  But 
I'm  glad  you  did." 

"  So  am  I." 

"  Well,  now  you  got  him,  see  you  keep  him,  an' 
don't  you  give  him  away." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  this  .      ."  said  Martha  .      .  "  You 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HOUSE  167 

were  speakin'  a  while  ago  about  likin'  the  kinda 
fella  that  one  down  home  ...  I  mean,  in  the 
city  .  .  .  was.  I  told  you  you  didn't  like  the 
thing  he  was.  You  liked  the  thing  you  thought  he 
was.  That  rule  works  both  ways.  We  all  like 
the  ones  we  do  like,  not  for  what  they  are,  but 
for  what  we  think  they  are.  Theron  thinks  you're 
the  greatest  ever.  It's  up  to  you  to  keep  him 
thinkin'  it  ...  To  be  it.  You  always  wanted  to 
be  a  fine  lady.  Now's  your  chance  to  make  good. 
We  can  all  be  what  we  want  to,  if  we  want  to  hard 
enough." 

Dreamily  Cora  watched  her  mother  fold  up  the 
square  of  flannel  she  had  been  exquisitely  faggot- 
ing, take  off  her  thimble  and  drop  it  in  her  work- 
bag. 

"  It's  time  I  was  gettin'  home.  They  won't 
know  what's  got  into  me,  stayin'  out  so  late,"  said 
Martha. 

"  It's  my  fault,"  Cora  confessed.  "  I've  kept 
you.  I've  unloaded  my  troubles  on  you.  I  always 
did.  Everybody  always  does.  I  ...  I  ..." 
the  difficult  words  fairly  choked  her,  but  she 
brought  them  out  gallantly,  one  by  one,  until  her 
penance  was  complete  ..."  I've  been  a  naughty 
girl  to  you.  A  troublesome,  bad  daughter. 
Will  .  .  .  will  you  forgive  me?" 


168  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Martha  gathered  up  the  square  of  flannel  and 
placed  it  in  Cora's  lap. 

"  You'll  find  a  mother  don't  '  forgive/  "  she 
answered  soberly,  "  she  just  .  .  .  understands." 

After  many  days  it  came,  the  hour  of  mortal 
struggle. 

Martha,  holding  the  torch  high,  saw  her  girl 
pass  down  to  the  very  brink  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  .  .  .  saw  and  suffered  and  conquered. 

"  Doncher  want  to  kiss  your  little  son?  " 

Cora's  heavy  lids  lifted.  Her  eyes  met  Mar- 
tha's. 

"  I  want  to  ...  kiss  .  .  .  my  mother  .  .  . 
first." 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  SILVER  BRIDE 

THE  sound  had  been  repeated  twice  before 
Martha,  busy  upstairs,  was  convinced  that 
someone  actually  was  knocking. 

"  You'd  be  runnin'  your  feet  off,  if  you  answered 
the  door  every  time  you  thought  you  heard  a  rap. 
What  with  the  furniture  warpin',  this  hot  weather, 
lettin'  out  reports  like  the  crack  o'  doom,  an' 
acorns  fallin'  on  the  roof,  there's  no  end  to  the 
false  alarms,"  she  told  herself  as  she  made  her 
way  downstairs. 

The  kitchen  floor  reverberated  beneath  her 
solid  tread.  She  crossed  it  and  laid  her  hand  on 
the  latch  of  the  screen-door. 

"  For  the  love  o'  Mike !  "  came  in  a  gasp  from 
between  her  astonished  lips. 

The  man  on  the  porch  raised  his  hat.  He  did 
not  speak. 

"  Peter  Gilroy !  "  Martha  enunciated. 

For  once  her  presence  of  mind  deserted  her. 
She  stood  motionless,  gazing  blankly  into  the  face 

169 


170  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

confronting  hers  through  the  wire  network  of 
the  screen-door. 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  ask  me  inside?  " 

The  question  brought  her  to  herself  with  a 
start. 

"  Sure !  Come  along  in !  Sit  down !  You 
might  as  well  kill  a  body  as  surprise  her  to  death. 
Whoever'd  have  thought  of  seein'  you  again 
after  .  .  ." 

"  Twenty-five  years,"  Gilroy  supplied  dryly 
His  slow,  incisive  speech  had  the  effect  of  italiciz- 
ing his  words.  He  did  not  remove  his  eyes  from 
Martha's  face  even  while,  with  great  deliberation, 
he  lifted  his  hat,  drew  a  handkerchief  from  his 
coat-pocket  and  passed  it  over  his  face  and  brow. 
He  was  minutely  conscious  of  himself,  his  appear- 
ance, his  possessions.  He  hoped  she  saw  that 
his  hat  was  a  fine  Panama,  his  handkerchief  cam- 
bric and  immaculate,  his  suit  of  faultless  cut  and 
material. 

"  Warm,  ain't  you?  "  asked  Martha,  taking  in 
all  the  details  without  seeming  to  see  anything. 

"Hot!"  Gilroy  returned  succinctly. 

"  I'll  get  you  a  bottle  of  ginger-ale." 

"  Never  drink  it.    Have  you  any  milk?  " 

"  Sure  ...  but  ..  ." 

"  I'll  say  thank  you  for  a  glass  of  that." 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  171 

"  But  milk  won't  be  good  for  you  when  you're 
so  '  het-up,'  as  they  say  hereabouts." 

'  There's  no  harm  in  a  glass  of  milk.  I  drink 
it  all  the  time.  I've  got  what  I've  got  ...  I  am 
where  I  am  in  the  world,  just  because  I've  stuck 
to  milk  and  kept  away  from  liquor." 

"  But  when  you're  so  overheated  .  .  ." 

Gilroy  shrugged.  There  was  no  mistaking  his 
meaning.  Without  further  ado  Martha  betook 
herself  to  the  chill-room  whence  she  appeared  a 
moment  later  with  a  bottle  of  ice-cold  milk.  What 
time  she  got  a  tumbler  from  the  cupboard  and  set 
it  before  her  guest  she  plied  him  with  friendly 
questions. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  from  the  Junction? 
.  .  .  Trolley  or  hack?  " 

There  was  decided  hauteur  in  Gilroy's  raised 
eyebrows,  the  brief  pause  prefacing  his  answer. 

"  Motor  ...   I  hired  one  and  drove  over." 
'  Then  what,   in  the  name  o'  common  sense 
makes  you  so  hot?     It  couldn't  'a'  been  warm 
motorin'  .  .  ." 

"  I  made  the  man  stop  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill.  I  wanted  to  come  on  up  by  myself  .  .  . 
alone.  I  didn't  know  the  thing  they  call  a  hill 
here  in  any  other  part  they'd  call  a  mountain." 

Martha    smiled.      "  No    wonder   you're    dead 


172  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

beat.  You  must  'a'  had  a  climb.  .  .  .  An'  your 
shover  was  a  chump  not  to  tell  you  you  were 
takin'  your  life  in  your  hands  mountin'  '  Break- 
neck '  in  the  full  heat  of  the  day." 

"  Now  you  speak  of  it,  I  remember  the  fellow 
did  say  .  .  ."  Gilroy  took  a  deep  draught  of  the 
rich,  frosty  cream. 

"Sip  it!  Sip  it,  man!"  warned  Martha 
anxiously. 

For  answer  he  drained  the  glass. 

"Say,  who's  doing  this?"  he  demanded  with 
jaunty  insolence. 

"  The  Lord  knows  I  ain't,"  Martha  gave  back 
good-humoredly.  "  You  wouldn't  catch  me  bein' 
such  a  fool.  But  you're  the  same  old  Peter.  No- 
body can  tell  you  nothin'.  You  know  it  all,  like 
you  always  did." 

Gilroy  poured  himself  another  tumblerful. 

"  Yes,  I'm  the  same  old  Peter,"  he  returned, 
the  thin-lipped  grimace  that  passed  for  a  smile 
curling  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "  The  same  old 
Peter.  And  you?  ...  It  was  a  notion  I  had  to 
see  for  myself  if  you  were  the  same  old  Martha 
that  brought  me  here." 

Again  Martha  smiled.  '  Well,  now  you  see 
me,  what  do  you  think?  " 

He  looked  her  critically  over,  his  sharp  eyes 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  173 

taking  in  every  detail  of  her  neat,  plain  dress,  her 
clean,  wholesome  person. 

'  You've  grown  heavier,"  he  inventoried,  "  and 
your  hair  has  some  gray  in  it,  but  otherwise  .  .  . 
I  can't  see  as  you've  changed  much.  Of  course 
twenty-five  years'd  tell  on  anybody." 

"  Right  you  are!  It's  up  to  us  not  give'm  the 
chance  to  tell  anything  we  wouldn't  like  repeated. 
They're  welcome  to  whatever  they  can  get  on  me. 
I'm  the  mother  o'  four  childern,  the  grandmother 
o'  two,  an'  proud  of  it !  We  ain't  got  much,  but 
what  we  got's  our  own.  That's  my  record.  I'm 
contented." 

'  You're  easily  satisfied." 

Martha  allowed  the  slur  to  pass,  not  because 
she  had  no  retort  ready,  but  because,  'way  down 
in  her  heart,  she  was  sorry  for  Peter. 

"  I  used  to  think,  in  the  old  days,  you  had  a  lot 
of  ambition." 

"  You  thought  right!  " 

'  You  never  looked  like  a  girl  who  would  take 
second-best  for  choice." 

"  Sure  I  wouldn't." 

Gilroy  looked  about  the  room  with  eyes  of 
shrewd  appraisal. 

"  They  give  you  rather  tidy  lodgings  here,  don't 
they?  But  I  suppose  the  rent  of  a  little  place  like 


174  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

this,  so  far  out  in  the  country,  wouldn't  mount  up 
to  much  in  the  year,  would  it?  " 

Martha  shook  her  head.  "  Dear,  no.  You 
could  get  it  for  a  song." 

"  And  you  sing  the  song,  I  bet!  " 

"  Certaintly  I  do.  If  you  rec'lect  anythin'  about 
me  at  all,  you  must  remember,  I  always  did  have 
a  voice  .  .  .  like  a  bird! " 

The  flush  on  Gilroy's  face  faded.  A  furrow 
appeared  between  his  brows. 

"  I  can't  help  thinking  it's  a  shame  you  are 
buried  in  a  place  like  this,  where  there's  no  life,  no 
chance  to  do  anything.  You're  too  smart  a 
woman  to  be  wasting  your  days  cooped  up  in  the 
backwoods." 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  Martha's  patience 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  way.  She  got  herself 
in  hand  in  time  to  spare  him  the  "  tongue-lashin'  ' 
he  deserved.  Peter's  hide  was  certainly  thick,  but 
nevertheless  she  knew  if  she  once  set  out  to  do  it 
she  could  make  him  wince.  She  preferred  to 
change  the  subject. 

"  I  don't  need  to  ask  how  the  world  has  treated 
you.  You  got  things  all  your  own  way,  aintchu? 
Lots  of  money  and  no  end  of  pull." 

Gilroy's  trim  figure,  which  had  sagged  somewhat 
in  his  chair,  braced  up  with  a  sudden  effort.  The 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  175 

flush  upon  his  face  was  gone,  but  beads  of  moisture 
still  stood  out  upon  his  white  forehead.  He 
squared  his  chest. 

"  So  far  as  money  .is  concerned,  and  pull,  I'm 
all  right  .  .  .  a-all  right! "  his  voice  was  bland 
with  self-esteem.  "  I  suppose  I'd  be  called  a  rich 
man.  God  knows  I  wish  I  hadn't  so  much  when 
it  comes  income-tax  time.  And  as  to  pull.  .  .  . 
Well,  there're  some  who  think  I'm  the  man  to 
apply  to  when  there  are  favors  to  be  handed  out." 

His  fingers  gripped  the  arms  of  Sam's  chair 
with  a  tension  that  made  the  knuckles  white. 

"Your  folks  are  well  an'  thrivin'?"  Martha 
asked  with  exaggerated  interest,  to  cover  the  fact 
that  she  was  beginning  to  feel  uneasy  about  him. 
"  We  don't  get  much  New  York  news  up  here. 
Once  in  a  while  someone  sends  us  a  home  paper, 
or  one  of  the  folks  writes  a  letter,  but  lots  goes 
on  we  don't  know  anything  about,  even  so." 

"  My  mother  died  .  .  .  let's  see  .  .  .  five  years 
after  you  married.  That's  twenty-five  years 
ago " 

"  Come  Fourth  of  July,"  assisted  Martha. 

"  My  mother's  been  dead  twenty  years.  My 
sister,  Mary  .  .  .  she  that  married  Sullivan  .  .  . 
she  took  typhoid  fever  and  died  in  hospital  ...  I 
think  it  was  the  year  they  told  me  your  second 


176  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

child  was  born.  Sullivan  never  treated  her  right, 
so  when  she  went  I  packed  him  off  to  Porto  Rico. 
All  I  know  of  him  now  is  he  don't  like  the  climate. 
They'd  no  children,  praise  be!  " 

"Didn't  you  have  a  brother?  .  .  .  Martin? 
Where's  he?" 

"  Martin  was  operated  on  for  appendicitis  the 
same  year  you  left  New  York  to  come  up  here. 
He  never  came  out  from  the  ether.  That  was 
.  .  .  that  was  .  .  .  ten  years  ago.  There's  times 
I  feel  .  .  .  times  I  feel  .  .  .  I'll  go  ...  the 
same  way  .  .  .  appendicitis." 

"  Never  you  fear,"  Martha  reassured  him. 
"  You'll  prob'ly  go  o'  somethin'  quite  different 
.  .  .  not  half  so  stylish." 

"  Martin  had  no  fam'ly."  ...  It  took  Gilroy 
a  minute  or  two  to  bring  it  out.  "  He'd  been 
fairly  lucky.  All  he  left  came  to  me." 

If  Martha  was  impressed  she  certainly  did  not 
show  it.  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  physical  distress 
Peter  had  a  sensation  of  distinct  disappointment 
at  Martha's  failure  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

"  As  an  old  man  up  here  says,  '  Them  as  has 
got,  gits,'  "  she  quoted  cheerfully,  hastening  to 
add  with  apparent  irrelevance:  "  Say,  you  were  in 
luck  to  find  anyone  home.  I  come  within  an  ace 
o'  goin'  off  with  the  raft  o'  them  on  a  all-day  picnic 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  177 

over  to  what  we  call  '  Cat-Rocks,'  fifteen  miles 
away.  First-off,  I  planned  to  go  along,  but  then  I 
thought  it'd  give  me  a  good  chance  to  pick  up  the 
house,  an'  do  a  whole  lot  o'  little  things  I'm  kinda 
behind  with,  if  I  stayed  back.  So  I  begged  off. 
The  whole  fam'ly's  went.  Sam  an'  Ma  .  .  .  you 
remember  Ma  Slawson,  doncher?  An'  the  three 
childern.  I  call'm  childern,  though  Francie's 
twenty-two  now,  an'  Sammy's  as  tall  as  his  father, 
an'  Sabina's  got  to  the  age  where  she  thinks  about 
nothin',  as  I  tell  her  father,  but  ribbons  an'  beaus. 
An'  Cora  an'  her  two  kids,  an'  Miss  Claire's  little 
Priscilla,  an'  the  Ballard  twins.  .  .  ." 

Gilroy  frowned  with  the  effort  to  straighten  out 
the  ramifications  for  himself. 

"  What  relation's  Miss  Claire,  and  where  do 
the  Ballard  twins  come  in?  " 

Martha  laughed.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  ask. 
We  got  so  used  to  includin'  'm  in  the  fam'ly,  we 
don't  stop  to  think  strangers  might  get  mixed  up 
on  it.  Miss  Claire  is  Mrs.  Ronald,  an'  her  little 
Priscilla,  eight  years  old,  is  as  much  at  home  over 
here,  to  the  lodge,  as  she  is  at  the  big  house.  The 
Ballard  twins  belong  to  Dr.  an'  Mrs.  Ballard, 
from  Boston.  The  little  fellas's  five  years  old, 
an'  as  smart  as  they  make'm.  The  doctor  is  that 
proud  o'  them  he  can  hardly  see  straight.  He's 


178  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

a  terrible  swell  himself.  Folks  come  to'm  from 
all  over  the  country  to  be  cured,  but  he  never  put 
on  any  airs,  till  them  two  boys  o'  his  come  along. 
If  it  wasn't  for  their  sensible  mother  they'd  be 
spoiled  for  fair,  but  she  keeps'm  right  up  to  the 
mark  till  they're  a  credit  to  her.  ...  I  say,  looka 
here,  Peter,  what  do  you  think  of  a  cup  o'  good, 
hot  ginger-tea?  I'm  afraid  that  cold  milk  ain't 
sittin'  right  on  your  stummick." 

She  brewed  the  tea  and  he  gulped  it  down, 
but  her  watchful  eye  saw  no  sign  of  improve- 
ment in  his  condition,  and  after  a  pause  she 
spoke  again. 

"  Say,  Peter,  doncher  think  I  better  call  in  the 
doctor  to  take  a  look  at  you?  If  he  ain't  out  on 
his  beat  ...  I  should  say,  his  rounds  ...  I  can 
have'm  here  in  a  jiffy.  He's  a  good  doctor,  Dr. 
Driggs  is;  he'll  know  what  to  do  the  minute  he 
claps  his  eye  on  you." 

By  this  time  Gilroy  was  too  agonized  to  argue 
the  case,  even  to  suggest,  as  she  knew  he  would 
have  done  ordinarily,  that  she  make  "  a  bargain  " 
beforehand.  As  it  happened  she  could  not  have 
made  the  bargain  in  any  case,  for  Dr.  Driggs  was 
reported  "  out."  No  one  knew  where  he  was,  no 
one  cared  to  undertake  to  say  when  he  would  be 
back. 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  179 

Martha  hung  up  the  receiver,  her  brows  drawn 
together  in  an  anxious  frown. 

Peter's  groans  grew,  momently,  more  and  more 
blood-curdling.  Clearly  it  was  a  desperate  case, 
needing  desperate  remedy. 

She  took  down  the  receiver  again  and  called  up 
Dr.  Ballard.  What  time  she  waited  for  a  reply 
she  went  over  in  her  mind  the  absurdity  of  the 
thing  she  was  doing  .  .  .  summoning  a  renowned 
specialist,  one  whose  services  were  obtainable  only 
in  cases  of  exceptional  gravity,  where  expense  was 
no  object  ..."  for  a  shriveled-up  little  tight- 
wad, with  a  case  of  colly-wobbles." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  the  first  time  I  made  a  fool  o' 
myself,  an'  I  guess  it  won't  be  the  last.  Dr.  Bal- 
lard won't  hold  it  against  me,  I  Jcnow  that  much, 
an'  if  he  gets  Peter  straightened  out  from  the 
double-bow-knot  he's  tyin'  'mself  inta,  I  won't 
care  if  the  doctor  does  think  I'm  that  cheeky  you'd 
say  I  had  the  mumps  an'  then  some.  .  .  .  Hello ! 
.  .  .  This  Dr.  Ballard's  house?  Is  he  in?  .  .  . 
Tell'm  Mrs.  Slawson's  on  the  wire  .  .  .  danglin' 
.  .  .  will  you,  please?  " 

A  few  moments  later,  Peter,  blear-eyed  with 
pain,  saw  her  charging  toward  him,  her  face  that 
of  a  conqueror. 

"  Say,  Peter,  quit  your  howlin'  for  a  minute 


i8o  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

while  I  tell  you  somethin'.  You  can  take  up  the 
howlin'  again  just  where  you  left  off  when  I'm 
done,  if  you  wanta.  I  got  Dr.  Ballard  for 
you.  He's  comin'  right  along  an'  you  can  take 
it  from  me,  if  anyone  can  knock  spots  outa 
that  pain  you  got,  it's  himself.  But  he  says  get 
your  clo'es  off  an'  putcher  in  bed  before  he 
comes." 

Peter  demurred,  shivering,  moaning. 

"  Come  along  now,"  commanded  Martha 
martially,  an  urgent  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  You 
can  lean  on  me,  if  you  can't  walk  alone.  Or,  if 
you're  too  far  gone  for  that,  even,  I'll  pick  you 
up  an'  carry  you.  But  believe  me,  you're  goin' 
inta  that  room,  an'  be  in  that  bed  accordin'  to 
specifications,  by  the  time  the  doctor  gets  here. 
What  he  says  goes !  " 

Gilroy's  brain,  numb  with  suffering,  could  still 
grasp  the  fact  that  it  was  Martha  who  was  speak- 
ing. He  pulled  himself  together  and  followed 
her,  his  feet  so  heavy  they  scuffed  along  the  floor, 
his  head  so  light  he  fairly  babbled. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  Sam  and  the  rest  came 
back  from  their  picnic,  they  found  the  place  turned 
into  a  hospital  where  "  mother  "  presided  as  chief- 
nurse,  and  the  great  Dr.  Ballard,  as  simply,  with 
as  matter-of-course  an  air  as  if  he  were  the  newest 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  181 

of  young  internes,  sat  beside  his  patient,  watching 
his  symptoms,  until  the  worst  was  over. 

So  it  was,  too,  that  day  after  day  passed  and 
still  Peter  stayed  on,  at  first  too  weak  to  be  moved, 
then,  in  his  heart,  glad  that  he  was  a  slow  con- 
valescent. It  was  something  entirely  new  in  his 
experience,  this  being  tended  by  ones  not  paid  for 
their  service.  It  was  something  to  think  about, 
to  muse  upon.  His  keen  eyes,  trained  to  pierce 
through  the  thin  shell  of  outward  appearance,  to 
the  inner  kernel  of  things,  probed  the  acts  of  those 
about  him  and  discovered  nothing  but  simple  sin- 
cerity ...  no  significant  reserves,  no  sinister 
undercurrents.  He  could  not  comprehend  it.  It 
bothered  him  so  he  grew  testy  with  everyone,  but 
especially  with  Dr.  Ballard  and  Martha. 

In  very  blunt  fashion  he  asked  Dr.  Ballard  one 
day  what  his  bill  amounted  to. 

Dr.  Ballard  did  not  answer  at  once.  Gilroy 
watched  him  with  growing  apprehension.  Plainly 
the  bill  was  excessively  large,  or  the  doctor's  pow- 
ers of  computation  correspondingly  small.  Either 
way  about,  Peter  trembled  for  his  pocket-book. 

"  My  bill  .  .  .?"  Dr.  Ballard  brought  out  at 
length.  ;'  Why,  it  is  a  little  difficult  to  set  a  price 
on  a  job  like  this,  because  it's  something  quite  out 
of  my  ordinary  line.  I'm  not  a  general  practi- 


182  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

tioner,  you  know.  I  rarely  attend  a  case  nowa- 
days except  in  consultation.  It's  on  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son's  account  I  took  this.  I'm  under  heavy  obliga- 
tion to  her  for  services  rendered  me  and  mem-' 
bers  of  my  family.  .  .  .  When  she  asked  me  to 
come  to  you,  I  came  without  any  thought  of  com- 
pensation. But,  since  you  ask  about  my  bill  .  .  . 
Let's  see,  I  was  here  on  an  average  of  twice  a 
day,  for  the  first  three  days.  That  makes  six 
visits.  Six  visits  at  fifty  dollars  a  visit  .  .  ." 

Peter  gasped.  His  eyes  fairly  started  out  of 
his  head. 

"  Makes  three  hundred  dollars,"  continued  Dr. 
Ballard  nonchalantly.  "  Six  days  more,  one  visit 
daily,  makes  another  three  hundred.  And  for  the 
first  night  ...  I'd  have  to  charge  .  .  .  well  .  .  . 
if  I  were  charging  you  up  for  my  time  according 
to  my  regular  rates  .  .  .  I'd  have  to  charge  you 
for  detentions  that  first  night.  You  recollect,  you 
wouldn't  let  me  go.  You  said  you  didn't  mind 
paying  my  price  if  I'd  only  stay  and  stop  the  ... 
blankety-blank  pain.  I  stayed  and  I  stopped  it. 
I  fulfilled  my  part  of  the  contract.  Considering 
you're  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Slawson  I'll  let  you  off 
easy.  Give  me  a  thousand  and  we'll  call  it 
square." 

Gilroy  sank  back  against  his  pillows,  stunned, 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  183 

quivering,  speechless.  There  was  a  moment  of 
tense  silence. 

Dr.  Ballard  rose  and  stood  beside  his  patient, 
looking  down  at  him  out  of  quizzical  eyes. 

"  What  you  really  need,  Mr.  Gilroy,"  he  ob- 
served, "  is  a  strong  mental  purgative.  Your  sys- 
tem is  clogged  up  with  poisonous  stuff  you  ought 
to  get  rid  of.  Unless  you  do  get  rid  of  it,  you'll 
see  yellow  in  everything  to  the  end  of  your  days." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  Peter  gasped  painfully. 

"  Think  it  out  for  yourself.  This  is  a  good 
time  to  do  it  in  .  .  .'  while  you're  resting,'  as 
Martha  says,"  and  the  doctor  moved  away,  leaving 
a  mystified  patient  behind. 

Peter  Gilroy  had  always  considered  himself 
particularly  astute  ..."  as  smart  as  they  make 
'em."  How,  otherwise,  could  he  have  held  the 
position  he  had  held  for  so  long  .  .  .  the  position 
of  right-hand-man  to  Judge  Granville,  one  of  the 
keenest  magistrates  on  the  bench  to-day.  How 
could  he  have  amassed  the  tidy  little  fortune  he 
had  amassed,  on  the  comparatively  modest  salary 
he  officially  drew.  He  knew  he  had  the  reputa- 
tion with  "  some  "  of  being  "  tricky."  He  did  not 
call  himself  tricky.  He  was  just  "  up  and  coming," 
an  entirely  different  proposition.  He  was  decid- 
edly proud  of  himself.  The  idiosyncrasies  others 


1 84  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

criticised  he  privately  applauded.  It.  was  his 
boast  that  he  never  forgot  a  friend,  nor  forgave 
an  enemy. 

It  would  have  been  going  too  far  to  say  he 
looked  on  Martha  as  an  enemy,  but  certainly  he 
had  never  forgiven  her  for  "  turning  him  down  " 
in  favor  of  Sam  Slawson.  He  had  never  under- 
stood himself  where  Martha  was  concerned,  any 
more  than  he  had  ever  understood  her  where  he 
was. 

He  had  met  Martha  Carrol  before  Sam  Slaw- 
son  ever  laid  eyes  on  her.  She  was  his,  Gilroy's, 
girl.  That  is,  he  was  known  to  be  "  keeping 
company  "  with  her.  He  had  never  looked  on 
Sam  as  a  rival  because  that  would  have  implied 
a  sense  of  his  own  inadequacy,  and  such  a  sense 
Gilroy  had  not.  He  had  watched  Slawson's  fond- 
ness with  the  tolerant  eye  of  an  amused  proprietor, 
rather  pleased,  than  otherwise,  to  see  another 
vainly  coveting  what  belonged  to  him.  And  then, 
suddenly,  the  unexpected  had  happened.  Martha 
had  chosen  Sam. 

Peter  never  had  believed,  he  did  not  believe  now 
that  her  choice  was  based  on  simple  preference. 
He  felt  that  in  some  way  he  had  piqued  or  angered 
her,  driving  her  to  revenge  herself  on  him  accord- 
ing to  the  fool  way  women  proverbially  have.  As 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  185 

he  had  undervalued  his  feeling  for  her,  so  he  over- 
valued hers  for  him.  He  had  found  he  could  not 
forget  her.  He  believed  she  secretly  cherished 
him.  His  motive  in  coming  to  see  her  after  the 
lapse  of  so  many  years  was  simple  enough.  He 
wanted  the  satisfaction  of  showing  her  what  she 
had  lost.  ...  A  man  of  means.  A  man  of  mind. 
His  injured  self-esteem  ached  to  feel  the  balm  her 
look  of  regret  would  bring.  But,  up  to  date,  the 
look  had  not  materialized. 

Gilroy  was  undismayed.  It  would  come.  It 
could  not  help  but  come.  If  Martha  was  proud  as 
Lucifer,  she  nevertheless  had  eyes  in  her  head. 
She  could  see  the  difference  between  himself  and 
Sam :  the  life  she  was  leading  and  that  she  might 
have  led.  Money  .  .  .  and  the  lack  of  it. 

"  I  can't  get  used  to  the  idea  of  you  being 
cooped  up  here  in  this  out-of-the-way  place,  while 
life's  going  on  without  you  and  you  ain't  '  in  it.' 
Any  other  woman,  it  wouldn't  so  much  matter. 
But  you!  You're  just  thrown  away  on  this  bunch 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  it!  " 

Martha  regarded  him  with  untroubled  eyes. 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  that  way.  I  mean,  that 
because  a  body  wasn't  in  the  thick  o'  things,  life 
was  gettin'  by  her.  I  never  felt  I  was  thrown 
away.  I  don't  believe  anything  ever  is  thrown 


i86  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

away  so  long  as  you  can  take  a  turn  out  of  it. 
I  don't  believe  we're  any  thriftier'n  God.  We 
don't  throw  away  things  till  we're  pretty  sure 
there's  nothin'  left  of'm  any  more.  An'  I  betcher 
He  don't  either.  If  I'm  thrown  away  it's  because 
I  ain't  no  more  use.  An',  that  bein'  the  case,  the 
city's  no  better  for  a  scrap-heap  than  the  country. 
I  may  be  thick-headed,  but  that's  the  way  I  feel 
about  it." 

"  Well,  I  always  thought  you  were  meant  for 
better  things." 

"  Better  things?  What,  for  instance?  " 
Peter  had  the  grace  to  flush.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
know.  Just  everything,  I  guess.  I  s'pose  you've 
been  here  so  long  now,  you  don't  realize  how 
dead  it  all  seems  to  a  man  fresh  from  the  city. 
The  truth  is,  Martha,  I  thought  a  lot  of  you  once, 
and  it  jars  me  like  the  mischief  to  see  you  settled 
down  the  way  you  are.  I'm  disappointed  in  you. 
I  expected  you'd  make  a  ten-strike.  When  you 
were  a  girl  I  thought  you  were  a  live  wire.  But 
the  way  you're  satisfied  with  missing  the  good  of 
life  is  a  caution !  It  looks  to  me  as  if  you'd 
lost  all  your  '  vim  and  bounce,'  as  the  advertise- 
ment says  .  .  .  being  willing  to  let  the  world 
go  on  without  raising  a  finger  to  take  a  hand  in 
the  game." 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  187 

"  That's  me  all  over,"  said  Martha  amiably. 
"  You  struck  your  head  on  the  nail  this  time, 
Peter,  an'  no  mistake !  " 

In  spite  of  the  moribund  condition  of  his  en- 
vironment Gilroy  was  in  no  haste  to  desert  it.  His 
attack,  much  more  serious  than  he  himself  sus- 
pected, had  left  him  languid  and  nerveless.  He 
found  it  pleasant  to  lie  in  the  hammock,  under- 
neath spreading  green  boughs,  while  the  tranquil 
days  slipped  past,  requiring  nothing  of  him  but 
quiescence.  From  this  point  of  vantage  he  grad- 
ually got  another  view  of  Martha  in  her  relation 
to  life.  His  brain  being  what  it  was,  the  light 
broke  slowly,  but  if  his  mind  was  not  open,  neither 
was  it  hermetically  sealed,  and  once  a  ray  had 
actually  penetrated,  another  and  another  followed 
suit.  He  even  became  aware,  without  being  told, 
that  something  festive  was  in  the  air,  something 
Martha  was  not  supposed  to  know  about  until  the 
time  was  ripe. 

Martha,  evidently,  could  not  be  hoodwinked. 

"  They're  goin'  to  have  great  doin's  over  to  the 
big  house  on  the  Fourth,"  she  confided  to  Peter. 
'  They  always  have  fireworks,  an'  ice-cream  an' 
cake,  an'  suchlike,  an'  invite  the  neighbors  in  to 
share'm,  but  this  year  I  guess  they're  plannin' 
somethin'  extra.  You  see,  the  Fourth  o'  July  is 


i88  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

the  day  Lord  Ronald  an'  Miss  Claire  got  engaged 
on,  an'  this  year  it's  the  tenth  anniversary.  Now, 
what  do  you  think  o'  that !  The  way  time  flies ! 
It  seems  like  yesterday!  They  ain't  countin'  on 
me  rememberin'  it,  an'  I  guess  they  don't  want  me 
to  give'm  a  cake  or  nothin'.  But  when  little  Mar- 
tha gets  left  recollectin'  dates  like  that,  it'll  be  a 
colder  day  than  the  Fourth  o'  July,  you  can  take 
it  from  me." 

So  busy  was  she  with  her  own  preparations, 
her  plan  to  steal  a  march  on  those  who  were 
trying  to  outwit  her,  that  the  great  day  actually 
arrived  and  she  was  still  in  working  garb 
when  Ma's  droning  voice  broke  through  her 
preoccupation. 

"  There  goes  a  team  ...  a  white  horse.  Won- 
der who  'tis.  Can't  get  more'n  a  glimpse  of  anny- 
body.  There's  a  woman  wit'  a  little  gurrl.  O, 
I  guess  I  know  who  she  is.  Prob'ly  she  as  was  a 
Fullum.  There's  Mrs.  Miller  that  lives  down  the 
road  on  the  way  to  Milby's  Corners.  Who's  that? 
Here  comes  a  team  .  .  .  two  teams.  There's 
another  team.  Don't  know  if  that's  a  Bugbee, 
or  not.  It's  a  female  woman  dressed  in  white, 
annyhow.  They're  all  goin'  to  the  big  house.  An' 
us  only  invited  the  last  thing,  like  it  was  to  fill  in 
for  somebody  that  disappointed." 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  189 

"  Quit  your  grumblin',  Ma,  an'  be  glad  you  was 
asked  at  all.  You  been  all  prinked  up  since  day- 
break, so  there's  nothin'  to  detain  you  here,  if 
you  want  to  be  on  the  job,  to  open  the  ball  dancin' 
the  fantango  with  Peter.  Say,  Peter,  take  Ma 
over  to  the  big  house,  will  you?  What's  become 
o'  the  rest  o'  them,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Francie 
an'  Sammy  an'  big  Sam.  They  just  lit  out  an' 
not  so  much  as  a  '  Good-by !  I'm  goin' ! '  to  let  me 
know  they  was  off.  I'll  have  my  dress  changed 
in  a  jiffy,  an'  then  I'll  folia  you.  They  needn't 
hold  up  the  party  for  me  .  .  .  tell'm  to  try  to 
enjoy  'mselves  till  I  appear,  which  it'll  be  as  soon 
as  I've  me  ball-gown  on,  an'  me  French  maid  has 
done  me  hair." 

Thoughtful  Francie  had  laid  her  things  out  on 
the  bed,  she  discovered.  Personally,  she  would 
have  preferred  her  black  dress  to  the  white  one 
the  child  had  selected,  but  rather  than  disappoint 
her,  she  decided  to  wear  the  white. 

14  If  she  wants  me  to  be  a  summer-girl,  a  sum- 
mer-girl I'll  be,"  she  mocked  at  herself  in  the 
mirror.  "  I  suppose  I'm  no  worse  off  than  lots  o' 
others  my  age.  Some're  girls  an'  some're  not, 
same's  myself!  "  And  so,  she  innocently  fell  into 
the  trap  that  had  been  set  for  her. 

The  grounds  were  well  filled  when  at  last  she 


MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

made  her  way  across  the  lawn.  But  it  was  not  the 
sight  of  so  many  people  that  brought  Martha  to  a 
sudden  standstill.  It  was  the  sense,  sweeping 
over  her  in  a  tide  of  quick  illumination,  that  they 
were  all  here  in  honor  of  her.  In  a  second  she 
was  surrounded.  Neighbors  pressed  about  her, 
with  outstretched  hands,  congratulations,  loving 
thanks  for  benefits  received.  She  hardly  heard  the 
words  they  said,  for  her  pounding  heart.  She 
scarcely  saw  their  kind  faces  for  her  tear-blurred 
eyes.  But  Peter  heard.  Peter  saw.  It  seemed  to 
him  there  was  not  one  soul  in  the  whole  assem- 
blage, high  or  low,  who  did  not  acknowledge  him- 
self in  debt  to  Martha.  Rich  and  poor,  she  had 
served  them  all,  had  somehow  knit  her  life  into 
theirs. 

Long  before  Mr.  Ronald  called  the  company 
to  order,  hushing  the  happy  clamor  that  all  might 
hear  what  he  had  to  say  about  this  humble  woman 
in  whom  Peter  had  declared  himself  disappointed 
.  .  .  long  before  that,  Gilroy  had  got  a  mighty 
jolt.  He  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
realities,  an  entirely  new,  unsuspected  view  of  the 
things  that  constitute  life.  He  felt  as  if  the  world 
had  turned  a  somersault  and  he  and  his  theories, 
instead  of  being  "  on  top,"  as  he  had  hitherto 
fatuously  supposed,  were  underneath,  fit  only  to 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  191 

be  a  sort  of  doormat  on  which  souls  like  Martha 
might  wipe  their  feet. 

It  was  all  very  naive,  very  sentimental,  but  that 
was  precisely  what  the  Ronalds  and  the  Ballards 
had  intended  it  should  be.  For  once  in  her  life 
Martha  was  to  taste  the  flavor  of  gratitude  at  its 
sweetest. 

They  told  what  she  had  done  for  them  and 
theirs.  They  invited  the  neighbors  to  do  likewise. 

"  After  which  experience-meeting,"  Mr.  Ronald 
said  smiling,  "  you  are  all  cordially  invited  to 
salute  the  Silver  Bride  (who,  by  the  way,  is  really 
pure  gold)  and  inspect  the  wedding-presents 
sent  to  her  and  the  bridegroom  by  their  loving 
friends  .  .  .  which  are  on  view  in  the  dining- 
room.  I  mean  the  presents  are  on  view,  not  the 
friends." 

"  Can  you  beat  it!  "  whispered  Martha  to  Sam. 
"  Why,  it's  the  time  of  my  life." 

"  The  time  of  your  life  .  .  .  postponed  twenty- 
five  years,"  Sam  answered  wistfully. 

"  Which  is  just  what  makes  it  such  a  big, 
thumpin'  lump  now.  It's  the  time  of  my  life  with 
the  accumulated  interest  added,  like  they  do  in 
the  bank,"  Martha  returned. 

Peter,  meanwhile,  standing  as  he  thought  alone, 
suddenly  staggered  beneath  a  sounding  blow  on 


i92  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

his  shoulder  and  turned  around  to  find  Dr.  Ballard 
beside  him. 

"  Hullo!  You're  a  prize  patient!  A  credit  to 
your  physician !  "  the  doctor  hailed  him  cordially. 

Peter  readjusted  his  temper  quickly,  trying  to 
tune  himself  to  the  prevailing  key  of  the  happy 
company.  He  managed  to  smile  while  his 
shoulder-blade  still  ached  with  the  force  of  the 
other's  greeting.  "  You're  just  the  man  I  want 
to  see,"  he  stammered.  "  I'm  going  back  to  the 
city  to-morrow,  and  before  I  go  I'd  like  to  settle 
my  account  with  you.  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to 
have  outstanding  bills." 

Dr.  Ballard's  eyes,  puzzled  for  a  moment, 
cleared  as  his  mind  grasped  Peter's  mean- 
ing. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember!  My  bill  .  .  ."  he  re- 
peated lightly. 

Peter's  jaw  fell.  He  had  thought  he  was  equal 
to  parting  with  his  money.  He  had  tried  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  the  wrench.  He  had  studied  his 
check-book  and  mentally  subtracted  a  thousand 
dollars  from  "  Balance  brought  forward,"  but  he 
had  not  been  able  to  do  it  actually.  Now  he 
realized  that  all  along  he  had  hoped  Dr.  Ballard 
would  "let  him  off  that  check."  Evidently  Dr. 
Ballard  had  no  intention  of  doing  it. 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  193 

"  A  thousand  dollars  .  .  ."  Gilroy  brought  out 
at  last  .  .  .  "  It's  big  money!  " 

Dr.  Ballard's  eyes  grew  serious. 

"  Big  money,"  he  repeated.  "  Sure,  it's  big 
.money.  That's  what  we  get  for  being  experts 
.  .  .  you  and  I,  isn't  it?  " 

"Experts?" 

"  Certainly.  I've  no  doubt  you're  modest,  but 
business  is  business,  and  now  we're  talking,  man 
to  man,  we  may  as  well  be  honest  about  ourselves 
and  admit  that  we  are  specialists  in  our  own  lines 
.  .  .  '  you  in  your  little  corner  and  I  in  mine,'  as 
the  Sunday-School  hymn  says." 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  no  specialist,"  he 
protested.  "  I'm  just  a  sort  of  clerk  in  Judge 
Granville's  office.  I  don't  see  where  you  got  the 
idea  of  me  drawing  big  money.  My  salary  for  the 
year  hardly  does  more  than  double  the  amount  of 
your  bill." 

"Your  salary,  yes!  But  how  about  per- 
quisites? That's  where  you're  a  specialist,  Mr. 
Gilroy.  I  don't  ask  how  much  your  perquisites 
mount  up  to,  but  I'd  like  to  warrant  they  do  much 
more  than  double  the  figure  you  mention.  Come 
now,  don't  they?  " 

"  If  you  think  I'm  a  rich  man  .  .  ."  stammered 
Peter,  and  stopped. 


194  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

Dr.  Ballard  flung  back  his  head  with  an  im- 
patient movement.  "  I'm  not  talking  of  rich  or 
poor  .  .  .  those  are  purely  relative  terms,  that 
may  or  may  not  mean  anything.  The  fact  of  the 
matter  is,  you  pay  the  penalty  of  being  a  public 
man  .  .  .  you  have  a  record  which  those  who 
run  .  .  .  no,  those  who  stand  still,  as  we  up  here 
in  the  country  do  ...  may  read.  Now,  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do  ...  I'll  make  a  bargain  with 
you.  If  you  tell  me,  on  your  word  of  honor,  that 
you  would  suffer  deprivation  if  you  paid  me  my 
thousand  dollars  I'll  let  you  off  ...  I'll  charge 
it  up  to  '  Benevolence  '  on  my  books  and  let  it  go. 
There!  That's  fair,  isn't  it?  " 

Gilroy  nodded. 

"Well?"  urged  Dr.  Ballard. 

Peter  choked  with  the  attempt  to  speak.  But 
words  were  too  difficult,  they  would  not  come. 

"  What  is  it  to  be?  My  regular  terms  or  ... 
consideration  to  the  poor?" 

"  I'll  pay,"  gasped  Peter. 

Again  Dr.  Ballard's  hand  descended  on  Gilroy's 
shoulder,  this  time  in  honest  friendliness  of  feeling. 

"  Good!  "  he  cried.  "  Now  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing. I've  no  charge  at  all  against  you.  Nobody 
but  Mrs.  Slawson  could  have  induced  me  to  take 
your  case.  It  was  because  she  called  up  that  I 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  195 

came  to  you.  Under  the  circumstances  I  can't 
take  your  money.  I  never  have  had  any  intention 
of  taking  it.  What  I  do  want,  however,  is  to  see 
you  cured.  I  mean,  cured  of  the  trouble  you've 
got  in  your  inside  .  .  .  pocket.  I  tell  you  what 
it  is,  that  pocket-book  of  yours  would  be  a  deal 
healthier  if  you'd  let  it  have  a  couple  of  good 
hemorrhages,  in  a  good  cause.  The  old-fashioned 
'  cupping  '  wasn't  bad  practice  in  cases  of  intensi- 
fied congestion.  Have  you  ever  considered  where 
your  money  will  go  when  you  have  no  further  use 
for  it,  Mr.  Gilroy?" 

Peter  stared.  "  You  mean  .  .  .  I'm  going  to 
.  .  .  die?  "  he  brought  out  breathlessly. 

"  Sure !  So'm  I.  So  are  the  rest  of  this  pleas- 
ant company."  The  blood  returned  to  Gilroy's 
cheeks. 

"  I've  not  made  a  will,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean,"  he  said  with  quick  relief. 

"Why  haven't  you?" 

"  I've  nobody  to  leave  to." 

For  a  moment  Dr.  Ballard  hesitated.  Then  he 
brought  it  out  point-blank.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  Martha?" 

"Martha?"  Peter  stammered. 

"You  cared  for  her  once,  didn't  you?  You 
care  for  her  now.  I  know  you  do,  man.  You 


196  MARTHA  AND  CUPID 

can't  hide  it.  It  does  you  credit  ...  to  care  for 
such  a  woman  as  that.  I  respect  you  for  it.  Well, 
if  you've  no  one  else  who'd  naturally  inherit,  why 
don't  you  do  the  best  thing  you  ever  did  in  your 
life  and  make  a  will  in  favor  of  Martha  Slawson? 
I  leave  it  to  you,  could  you  think  of  a  better 
heir?" 

Gilroy  made  no  reply,  but  the  doctor  was  con- 
tent. He  had  planted  his  suggestion.  He  was 
confident,  in  the  end,  the  man  would  act  on  it. 
He  was  not  a  physician  for  nothing.  He  knew 
the  nature  of  his  patient's  mind. 

Later  that  evening  Peter  and  Martha  were 
standing  on  the  lawn,  waiting  for  Sam  and  the 
children  to  come  home  with  the  last  relay  of 
gifts. 

"  I'm  going  to-morrow,  Martha,"  Gilroy  said, 
"  but  before  I  go  ...  while  we  have  time,  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  I'm 
going  to  do  with  my  money  after  I'm  through 
with  it." 

"  It's  none  o'  my  business,"  said  Martha. 

"  That's  just  where  you're  wrong,"  Peter  as- 
sured her.  "  It  precisely  is  your  business.  I'm 
going  to  make  it  your  business.  You've  stood  by 
me  like  a  brick.  There's  times  when  I  haven't 


THE  SILVER  BRIDE  197 

been  all  I  should  be  to  you,  and  you've  never  laid 
it  up  against  me.  I  kind  of  see  things  different 
from  what  I  used  to,  and  ...  I  just  as  lief  tell 
it  to  your  husband  ...  I  think  just  as  much  of 
you  as  I  ever  did.  I  kept  track  of  you  all  these 
years.  I've  never  forgot  and  I  know  everything's 
happened  to  you  ...  all  you've  gone  through. 
You  haven't  had  things  easy,  Martha.  In  spite 
of  the  way  you'd  never  complain,  I  know  there've 
been  times  when  things  looked  pretty  dark.  Well, 
what  I  want  to  say  is,  that's  all  over  now.  I  used 
to  tell  you  that  if  you  married  me  I'd  put  velvet 
under  your  feet.  When  you  didn't  marry  me  I 
was  so  mad  I  wanted  to  put  other  things  .  .  . 
things  that'd  hurt.  I'm  over  that  now.  I  don't 
feel  so  any  more.  I  meant  what  I  said  in  the  old 
days.  If  you'd  have  married  me  I  would  have  put 
velvet  under  your  feet,  but  .  .  ." 

Martha  glanced  up  into  his  eyes,  then  quickly 
away  ...  up  at  the  star-lit  sky  above  their  heads 
.  .  .  down  to  the  close-clipped  turf  on  which  they 
stood. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  velvet  under'm 
now?  "  she  said. 


CONINGSBY      <D  A  W  S  O  N 


The  Garden  Without  Walls 

The  story  of  the  adventures  in  love  of  the  hero  till  his 
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The  Boston  Herald. 

"All  vivid  with  the  color  of  life;  a  novel  to  compel  not  only  absorbed 
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"The  most  enjoyable  first  novel  since  De  Morgan's  'Joseph  Vance.'  " 

— /.  B.  Kerfoot,  in  Life. 

The  Raft 

A  story  of  high  gallantry,  which  teaches  that  even  mod- 
ern life  is  an  affair  of  courageous  chivalry.  The  story  is 
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"The  Raft"  is  a  panorama  of  everyday,  available 
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Florence  on  a  Certain  Night  (and  Other  Poems) 

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"The   work   of   a  true   lyric  poet  who   'utters   his   own  soul."  " 

— Literary   Digest. 

"The  preeminent  quality  in  all  Mr.  Dawson's  verse  is  the  union  of 
delicacy  and  strength.  A  generation  which  has  all  but  forgotten  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase  'to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world'  has 
great  need  of  this  sort  of  poetry." — Providence  Journal. 


HENRY     HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS  TO  MAKE  ELDERS  YOUNG  AGAIN 
By  INEZ  HAYNES  GILLMORE 

PHOEBE  AND  ERNEST 

With  30  illustrations  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.    $1.35  net. 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the  story,  and  laugh 
understandingly  with,  and  sometimes  at,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin 
and  their  children,  Phoebe  and  Ernest. 

"  Attracted  delighted  attention  in  the  course  of  its  serial  publication. 
Sentiment  and  humor  are  deftly  mingled  in  this  clever  book." — New 
York  Tribune. 

"  We  must  go  back  to  Louisa  Alcott  for  their  equals." — Boston  Ad- 
vertiser. 

"  For  young  and  old  alike  we  know  of  no  more  refreshing  story." — 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

PHOEBE,  ERNEST,   AND  CUPID 

Illustrated  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.     $1.35  net. 
In  this  sequel  to  the  popular  "Phoebe  and   Ernest,"  each 
of   these  delightful  young  folk  goes  to  the  altar. 

"To  all  jaded  readers  of  problem  novels,  to  all  weary  wayfarers  on  the 
rocky  literary  road  of  social  pessimism  and  domestic  woe.  we  recommend 
4  Phoebe.  Ernest,  and  Cupid  '  with  all  our  hearts  :  it  is  not  only  cheerful,  it  s 
true." — A'.  Y.  Times  Review. 

"Wholesome,  merry,  absolutely  true  to  life."—  The  Outlook. 

"All  delicious— humorous  and  true."—  The  Continent. 

"Irresistibly  fascinating.  Mrs.  Gillmore  knows  twice  as  much  about 
college  boys  as ,  and  five  times  as  much  about  girls.  —Boston  Globe. 

JANEY 

Illustrated  by  ADA  C.  WILLIAMSON.     $1.25  net. 
"  Being  the  record  of  a  short  interval  in  the  journey  thru 
life  and  the  struggle  with  society  of  a  little  girl  of  nine." 

"  Our  hearts  were  captive  to  '  Phoebe  and  Ernest,'  and  now  accept 
'Janey.'  ...  She  is  so  engaging.  .  .  .  Told  so  vivaciously  and 
with  such  good-natured  and  pungent  asides  for  grown  people.  — 
Outlook. 

"  Depicts    youthful    human   nature    as    one    who   knows   and    loves    it 
Her   '  Phoebe  and   Ernest '   studies  are  deservedly  popular,  and  now,  in 
'  Janey,'   this   clever   writer   has   accomplished   an   equally   charming   por 
trait." — Chicago    Record-Herald. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

By  ROMAIN  ROLLAND 

Translated  from  the  French  by  GILBERT  CANNAN.  In 
three  volumes,  each  $1.50  net 

This  great  trilogy,  the  life  story  of  a  musician,  at  first 
the  sensation  of  musical  circles  in  Paris,  has  come  to  be  one 
of  the  most  discussed  books  among  literary  circles  in  France, 
England  and  America. 

Each  volume  of  the  American  edition  has  its  own  indi- 
vidual interest,  can  be  understood  without  the  other,  and 
comes  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

The  three  volumes  with  the  titles  of  the  French  -volumes 
included  are: 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN — MORNING — YOUTH — REVOLT 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET   PLACE — ANTOINETTE — THE  HOUSE 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  END 

LOVE    AND    FRIENDSHIP — THE    BURNING    BUSH — THE    NEW 
DAWN 

Some  Noteworthy  Comments 

"  'Hats  off,  gentlemen — a  genius.'  .  One  may  mention  'Jean-Chris- 
tophe'  in  the  same  breath  with  Balzac's  'Lost  Illusions';  it  is  as  big 
as  that.  .  It  is  moderate  praise  to  call  it  with  Edmund  Gosse  'the 
noblest  work  of  fiction  of  the  twentieth  century.'  .  A  book  as 
big,  as  elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to- 
day. .  We  have  nothing  comparable  in  English  literature.  .  " — 
Springfield  Republican. 

"If  a  man  wishes  to  understand  those  devious  currents  which  make 
•up  the  great,  changing  sea  of  modern  life,  there  is  hardly  a  single 
book  more  illustrative,  more  informing  and  more  inspiring.  — Current 
Opinion. 

"Must  rank  as  one  of  the  very  few  important  works  of  fiction  of  the 
last  decade.  A  vital  compelling  work.  We  who  love  it  feel  that  it 
will  live." — Independent. 

"The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or 
from  any  other  European  country,  in  a  decade." — Boston  Transcript. 

A  32-page  booklet  about  Romain  Rolland  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe,  with  portraits  and  complete  reviews,  on  request. 

HENRY      HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  NOVELS 

"WHY  ALL  THIS  POPULARITY?"  asks  E.  V.  LUCAS,  writ- 
ing in  the  Outlook  of  De  Morgan's  Novels.  He  answers : 
De  Morgan  is  "almost  the  perfect  example  of  the  humorist; 
certainly  the  completest  since  Lamb.  .  .  .  Humor,  how- 
ever, is  not  all.  .  .  .  In  the  De  Morgan  world  it  is  hard  to  find 
an  unattractive  figure.  .  .  .  The  charm  of  the  young  women, 
all  brave  and  humorous  and  gay,  and  all  trailing  clouds 
of  glory  from  the  fairyland  from  which  they  have  just  come." 

JOSEPH  VANCE 

The  story  of  a  great  sacrifice  and  a  life-long  love. 
"The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the   best  thing  in   fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy  ;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century." — LEWIS  MELVILLE 
in  Neva  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

ALICE -FOR -SHORT 

The  romance  of  an  unsuccessful  man,  in  which  the  long 
buried  past  reappears  in  London  of  to-day. 

"If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence,  a 
quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De  Morgan." 
— Boston  Transcript. 

SOMEHOW  GOOD 

How  two  brave  women  won  their  way  to  happiness. 
"A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,   as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction."—  The  Nation. 

IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

A  story  of  the  great  love  of  Blind  Jim  and  his  little  daugh- 
tei;  and  of  the  affairs  of  a  successful  novelist. 

"De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is  than 
the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years."—  The  Independent. 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  very  dramatic  novel  of   Restoration  days. 
"A  marvelous  example  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  inexhaustible  fecundity 
of  invention.    .    .    .    Shines  as  a  romance  quite  as  much  as  'Joseph 
Vanct    does  among  realistic  novels."— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Bejyins  comfortably  enough  with  a  little  domestic  quarrel  in  a 
studio.  .  .  .  The  story  shifts  suddenly,  however,  to  a  brilliantly 
told  tragedy  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  embodied  in  a  girl's  portrait. 
.  .  .  The  many  readers  who  like  Mr.  De  Morgan  will  enjoy  this  charm- 
ing  fancy  greatly."— New  York  Sun. 

A  Likely  Story,  $1.33  net ;  the  others,  $1.73  each. 
WHEN  GHOST  MEETS  GHOST 

The  most  "De  Morganish  "  of  all  his  stories.  The  scene 
is  England  in  the  fifties.  862 pages.  $1.60  net. 

***  A  thirty-two   page   illustrated   leaflet  about  Mr.  De  Morgan,  with 
complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


